


The Yaxley Affair

by Mice



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Humor, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lord Yaxley -- also known as Bertie Wooster -- and his inimitable valet Jeeves stumble upon a THRUSH plot, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are sent in to pull them out of trouble. Things don't work out according to plan. They never really do, do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yaxley Affair

**Author's Note:**

> The classic tales of Jeeves and Wooster are set in a misty time period sometime between the early 1920s and the very early 1940s, though Wodehouse's sunny world seemed to evade World War II entirely. In this tale, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, now Lord Yaxley after the long-ago death of his Uncle George, is in his mid-60s and his faithful valet Jeeves is about 70. Being set in the Cold War era of MUNCLE's universe, WWII certainly did happen, and it took its toll on our chaps, but this is only to be expected.
> 
> Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo, a Russian and an American, are spies and international law enforcement agents working for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. They pursue justice and work toward the end of THRUSH, a criminal organization bent on taking over the world by any means necessary. Their work takes them all over the world, placing them in situations ranging from opulent diplomatic parties to desert island prison camps as they seek out evildoers, foil assassinations, and destroy THRUSH satrapies. With the Cold War threat of nuclear annihilation only a breath away, the brave men and women of UNCLE seek to preserve a fragile peace between the superpowers.
> 
> The year is 1966. Legalization of homosexuality in the UK is still a year in the future. Angst is expected, with an 80% chance of humor, trending toward absurdity. Remember, I'm making most of the shit in this story up; it doesn't represent actual peoples or cultures any more than the original MUNCLE series did. Props to storyfan, who suggested I refer to this crossover as JUNCLE. Vorpal Plotbunny aiding and abetting and desperate beta thwappage by random_nexus, further beta love from janeturenne. Godzilla-sized beta aid by rabidsamfan. All remaining issues are strictly the fault of the Slash Rodent of Doooooom. Really.

"Telegram for you, Mr Waverly." Miss Ludstone entered with the envelope, a distinct look of puzzlement on her warm, brown face. Waverly couldn't blame her. Telegrams were not a usual method of communication within the UNCLE, given their worldwide communications networks. Primitive, really, though occasionally still necessary from some locations. This was a notable rarity and it left him quite curious.

He tilted a grizzled eyebrow at her. "Point of origin, Miss Ludstone?"

"Johannesburg, South Africa, sir," she said. "It appears to have been sent from the central post office there. We could not trace an address beyond that point."

Waverly nodded. "Very well, let me see." She handed him the envelope. It was addressed to him personally, via a public UNCLE contact point. He dismissed Miss Ludstone with the wave of a hand and opened the envelope.

> A.W.  
> LORD YAXLEY SENDS GREETINGS. HAS RECENTLY REDISCOVERED INTEREST IN ORNITHOLOGY. BELIEVES YOUR NEPHEWS MAY BE ABLE TO IDENTIFY NEW SPECIES.  
> R.J.

Alexander Waverly leaned back in his chair. "Well, well," he said. He read the telegram over again, twice. Setting it on his desk, he picked up his pipe, tapping the stem against his lips for a moment. With a sigh, he reached for the intercom and pressed a button. "Miss Ludstone," he said, "I need you to locate two files for me."

"I'll be in immediately, sir."

Leaning back again, he placed the stem of his pipe between his lips and lit the bowl, puffing thoughtfully. Whatever this was about, it was certain to be interesting.

***

"Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin, please, be seated." Waverly gestured and the two agents took seats at the round table before them. Napoleon sighed as he settled into his chair, bruises still somewhat tender from their last affair. At least there had been no broken bones this time. Illya eyed the folders on the table in front of Waverly, taking a seat next to his partner.

"What do we have today, sir?" Napoleon asked. Illya settled beside him, silent. The compact, blond man looked vaguely smug, having come out of the affair completely untouched for a change, leaving Napoleon to deal with Medical alone.

Waverly rested his pipe on the table as he looked across at his agents. "As you are aware, we have recently been monitoring some unusual THRUSH activity in East Africa."

Illya nodded. "Yes, sir. There has been a great deal of movement in Mozambique over the past three months, but no distinct hub has yet emerged. It could be that they are simply using Quelimane as a port of entry to the African interior, but with the current civil wars, it has been difficult to trace THRUSH developments in the region."

"Quite correct, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly said. "I received a communication earlier today from Johnannesburg, South Africa, which I believe may be related to this. I am as yet uncertain of its import, however I want the matter looked into."

"Of course, sir," Napoleon said, curious. "What facts do we have to hand at the moment?"

"Two days ago, in Johannesburg, a THRUSH operative, and a Japanese intelligence operative who was suspected of defecting, were found dead at a _soirée_ at the U.S. consulate there. No sensitive information was found on either body, yet it appears that they shot one another. The cause of this incident is unknown." Waverly turned the table toward his agents, offering them the files. "We have reason to believe two men are peripherally involved in the affair; a certain Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, Lord Yaxley, and his valet, Reginald Jeeves." The agents each took a file.

"Lord Yaxley," Waverly continued, "can most charitably be described as somewhat eccentric. He is a cheerful and essentially harmless man with a strict code of honor." Napoleon looked at the photo on the front cover of the Yaxley file. The nobleman was a slender, handsome man with sandy, greying hair and light blue eyes. He was tall, with a slightly vacant look about him. The surveillance photo had caught him with his face split by a broad, sunny grin; he was wearing a retina-searing tie and waistcoat of matching purple paisley. He was probably in his late 50s or early 60s, Napoleon thought, and that purple could qualify as a new THRUSH torture method. "The baron was the focus of a public scandal in the '30s that resulted in his fleeing Britain, when it was discovered that he was a homosexual. He has not returned to British territory since." Napoleon raised an eyebrow. Such a revelation could still ruin a man or leave him open to blackmail and manipulation.

"His valet, Reginald Jeeves, is a highly intelligent individual, and extremely resourceful," Waverly said, pointing to Illya's file with the stem of his pipe. Illya flipped the cover of his file, allowing Napoleon to have a look. This man was of a stronger build, tall and broad shouldered; a severe man, with steel grey hair and cold eyes to match. There was a cant to his nose that suggested it had been broken and badly set at some point. His face was a carefully cultivated expressionless mask that still managed to convey a vague sense of disapproval; he appeared to be a few years older than Lord Yaxley, and was far more conservatively dressed. "He has been in Lord Yaxley's employ for forty-five years, gentlemen, and his loyalty to the man is absolute."

Yaxley was pretty well preserved, then; they both were, it seemed. "Lovers?" Napoleon asked. It was the only thing that would make sense under those circumstances. What they saw in each other was an open question.

Waverly nodded. "I trust you are professional enough that this will not prejudice you, Mr Solo," he said with a touch of asperity. "It is imperative that these men be retrieved unharmed."

"Of course, sir." Prejudice would be hypocritical of him, despite all the women he bedded. It certainly wasn't something he'd ever acted upon, but he understood the urge, at least. Napoleon had to admit he was slightly surprised by Waverly's liberal attitude, given the laws involved. Then again, the Old Man was nothing if not a pragmatist.

Illya's eyes were already flicking through the valet's file. "A survivor of the Battle of the Somme," Illya noted. "Twice decorated for valor by 1917, one of those decorations a Victoria Cross." He looked up at Waverly. "What have these men to do with the two dead operatives? Are they suspected in the deaths?"

"No, Mr Kuryakin." Waverly shook his head. "I have reason to believe that they were at the _soirée_ where the deaths took place, and that they have somehow come into possession of whatever information was intended to be exchanged. I also believe it may be linked in some manner to current THRUSH activities in the region."

"And our assignment?" Napoleon flipped through the pages of Lord Yaxley's file. The man was ludicrously wealthy, with residences in New York, San Francisco, Rio de Janeiro, and Monte Carlo.

"You are to locate Lord Yaxley and his man, and bring them safely to New York with whatever information they may have found. Lord Yaxley's cousins Claude and Eustace Wooster are residents of Johannesburg and Pretoria, respectively. One of them may be aware of his whereabouts." Two photos were placed on the table and rotated to the agents. Napoleon's eyes widened slightly at the sight. The men were identical twins, of about Lord Yaxley's age. There was enough of a family resemblance that it was quite obvious they were related to the baron. "If you inform Lord Yaxley of your affiliation with the UNCLE, it will garner his cooperation."

"Yes, sir." Napoleon nodded. "When do we depart?"

"Immediately. You will have time to equip and pack a bag before your flight." Waverly dropped tickets onto the table and spun them to his agents. "Good luck, gentlemen. I expect you to report in with any developments."

***

Once Illya had settled in for the long trans-Atlantic flight toward their London transfer, things had gone about as expected. Napoleon, if anything, was applying an extra layer of the infamous Solo charm to every female within range, while Illya pulled out the files to go over both of them again. With THRUSH involved, even what looked on the surface like a babysitting project could become dangerous quickly. He hoped that these two old men would at least be cooperative once they were found. Waverly had seemed to think so, which left Illya wondering what wasn't in the file.

He raised his eyes from the files as Napoleon made an egregious pass at an attractive young thing two rows forward of them. His dark haired partner lounged in the aisle, a cigarette held loosely in his fingers, leaning on the back of the seat in front of her as he smiled and flirted. Napoleon was entirely too attractive for his own good, Illya thought. He wasn't immune to his partner's charm, though he ignored it on a regular basis. Despite Waverly's words regarding the men they were to bring in from the cold, Illya doubted such a _laissez faire_ attitude would extend to his agents. Such things were a vulnerability; once discovered, they could be an effective weapon for anyone attempting to conceal such proclivities. Illya had been concealing them for a very long time. The prospect of five years of hard labor in a Siberian prison had not been an incentive for letting anyone know.

"Forty-five years," he muttered to himself. It seemed an eternity. He wondered what had started the whole thing between the two men. Waverly had noted that Jeeves's loyalty was 'absolute.' Money did not buy such things, though Illya had to wonder if it had not begun as a way to touch what a poor man might otherwise never have. They seemed so very different. Lord Yaxley had been educated at Eton and Oxford, but was an indifferent student at best. He had stood out only in music -- he was apparently quite accomplished -- and rowing. He had published some short stories and a novel before the war, but they were light comedy, a genre that Illya had never particularly enjoyed. While he seemed well-liked by those who knew him, intelligence was not one of Bertram Wooster's more notable traits. His wealth was, very likely, the only thing that kept him in the social circles within which he moved. Easily dismissed, Illya concluded, unless THRUSH got their hands on his millions.

Jeeves, the servant, had little formal education, but seemed something of a self-taught polymath. The man spoke at least half a dozen languages in addition to being valet, chauffeur, and bodyguard for the man to whom he had dedicated his life. He had an interest in philosophy and psychology and was apparently at the center of a wide net of social acquaintances, whom he occasionally called upon for favors. The valet, Illya thought with some admiration, was obviously the one in charge. He would be the one they would need to convince, and the one who had whatever information they were being sent to recover.

"Well, Illya," Napoleon said as he poked Illya's ankle with one elegantly shod toe. "What do you think of that one?" He tilted his head toward one of the stewardesses; this one was petite and honey-blond. Illya flipped the files up and let Napoleon pass to get back into his seat.

"I think you are not going to have time enough to bed all of them when we reach London," he said. "Really, Napoleon, how many of them do you think you can manage on the concourse between planes? It's a bit ambitious, even for you."

"Jealous?"

"Hardly." None of them would be so much as a memory two days from now. In terms of his partner's attention, Illya knew he was the only permanent fixture. Their lives depended upon their trust and that indescribable symbiotic relationship they had developed since they had begun working together. Illya had always felt there was something nearly erotic about it, though he would never admit it, even under torture. Especially under torture.

"I could share," Napoleon suggested, his mouth quirked into an annoyingly condescending smile.

"I am not interested in your cast-offs." Illya opened the files again and attempted to ignore the teasing.

"Well, I think Brigitte is more interested in you, partner mine." He caught the quick motion of Napoleon's head out of the corner of his eye and followed its direction. Brigitte was the honey-blond, apparently. Illya shrugged and pointedly flipped through the pages of the Jeeves file. "Illya, Illya. All work and no play makes you a terribly dull Russian."

"All play and no work makes you an extremely sloppy American." He flipped the file shut and slapped it into Napoleon's lap. "Get better acquainted with our assignment. This one is actually much more interesting than I would have thought."

"The valet?"

"Mmhm." He waved a hand at the file. "Read. I know you are capable of it." He shot Napoleon a wry smile. There was something more thoughtful than usual in Napoleon's returned look. Illya shook his head and turned his attention to Yaxley's file.

***

Claude Wooster's residence was a large, art deco style mansion in an ostentatiously wealthy neighborhood. Obviously, Lord Yaxley wasn't the only one in the family with money. The door was answered by an African butler, who asked them to wait in a sitting room after enquiring about their business with the master of the house. The walls were strewn with photographs and paintings, a grand piano to one side of the room's center, well lit by the windows. The mantelpiece of the fireplace held framed photos of family and friends, dating from the 1920s to the present, with photos of older generations of relatives probably dating back to the 1870s. Several featured both Claude and Eustace Wooster, standing together, aging over the decades. One of the fading black and white photos showed a much younger Lord Yaxley, dressed for golf, and posing with one of his cousins. Whether it was Claude or Eustace was an open question, given that the twins were identical. In the background, Yaxley's valet was dressed in a formal morning coat and pinstripe trousers, a golf bag leaning against his hip. The man was looking at his employer, an unreadable expression on his face.

Travel time from New York to Johnannesburg had been nearly two days -- four days from the time of the deaths at the Consulate. Napoleon wondered if the two old men had been able to avoid THRUSH for that long. One of the Wooster twins, probably Claude, hurried into the sitting room, followed closely by his brother. The following twin looked more uneasy and was slightly out of breath. "What do you want with Bertie?" the first of them asked.

Napoleon looked them over quickly. Balding, grey hair, about Napoleon's height. "Which Mr Wooster am I addressing?" he asked, polite but puzzled.

"I'm Claude," the lead twin answered. "He's been missing for days, ever since the Consulate party." Napoleon noted the wedding ring on his hand. Eustace didn't wear one.

"Claude," Eustace said, a cautioning note in his voice. He stopped close behind his brother and lay a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm Napoleon Solo, and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said, offering a hand. Claude eyed him suspiciously before shaking it. Illya simply nodded at the men, eyes hooded as he watched them. "We have reason to believe that Lord Yaxley may be in danger. We've come to find him and his valet, and see that they're safe."

"Right," Eustace snorted. "You're not the first people to come looking, you know. Who sent you?"

"Others have come?" Illya asked. THRUSH or the Japanese, Napoleon surmised. Unless another government was diving in to take advantage of the chaos.

"Some Oriental chap," Claude said. "Hardly spoke English at all. Said he was from the Japanese government, though I couldn't credit it at all. Shifty sort, really. So who sent you and what do you want?"

Napoleon met Illya's eyes for a moment. Illya nodded. "We're from an organization known as the UNCLE. Perhaps you've heard of it?" Napoleon asked. Claude and Eustace looked at each other. They looked back at Napoleon.

"You're what," Eustace said. "Spies? Police? Government officials?"

Illya raised his chin, addressing him. "Yes."

"Oh, I don't like this." Claude sounded suspicious, his arms crossed over his chest.

Eustace shook his head. "Don't tell them anything. Bertie said not to say anything."

"Your cousin's life may depend on us finding him," Napoleon said. "It's been four days. If agents from one of the other organizations involved find him first, we can't ensure his safety."

"The Japs were rather a handful in the last war," Claude murmured, more worried now.

"The Japanese will be the least of his worries," Illya said.

"Why was Lord Yaxley in South Africa to begin with?" Napoleon asked. "I understand his primary residence is Rio de Janeiro."

"My grandson, Maarten," Claude said. "He got married last week. Bertie was always a hopeless romantic, fixing everyone's sinking engagements but never paying attention to his own when they floundered." Eustace looked at his brother, giving a cautioning shake of his head. They were avoiding a reference to the old scandal, Napoleon thought.

"We only wish to help your cousin," Illya said. "The deaths at the Consulate--"

"He didn't do it," Eustace insisted, his voice heated. "Bertie wouldn't hurt anyone. He's never had it in him. He can hardly stand to hurt someone's feelings, for God's sake."

"We have no reason to believe he did," Napoleon assured him. "We believe he and his valet got mixed up in an information exchange gone bad. Has anyone other than the Japanese representative come to speak with you?"

"Some snake of a bloke," Claude said. "Sounded English as you please, but there was something thoroughly ugly about him. Wouldn't say who sent him."

"Cold bastard," Eustace added with a slight shiver. "More than vaguely threatening. Claude's hired in extra security since the chap was here yesterday. You just never know."

"Do you know where your cousin is?" Napoleon asked.

"No," Claude insisted, slapping an open palm onto the piano top. It rang in the room under the force of his hand.

"If you do not know where he is, why did he insist you not tell anyone anything?" Illya asked, getting to the heart of the issue. Eustace shifted uneasily.

"This was about the point where that snakey bloke pulled a gun," Claude said. "We don't know anything. We don't know what Bertie saw. We don't know where he is. Right now, we don't even know if he's still alive." There was a fragment of hysteria in the edge of his voice.

"He threatened Claude's wife, you know," Eustace said, his voice quiet in the aftermath of the piano's vibrating chord.

Napoleon sighed. They were obviously frightened, with good reason. "We're not here to threaten anyone, Mr Wooster. May we sit down and discuss this civilly?"

"He's in terrible trouble, isn't he?" Eustace asked, concern written in the tension on his face and his posture.

Claude, resigned, gestured toward the couch and chairs. "Right then. Sit. I'll ring for some tea." Eustace shot him a look. "These two are at least not threatening anyone," Claude told him. "I'm inclined to find out if they might be able to help the old blister. It certainly seems like he'll need it."

Napoleon sat on the couch while Illya hovered behind him, alert and at ready. If the Japanese and THRUSH had already been here, the room might be bugged. He looked up, catching Illya's eye. Illya leaned down as Eustace took a chair and Claude pressed a button on the wall. "Bugs?" he asked. Napoleon nodded. Illya gave a brief, subtle nod back. Napoleon waved a hand at Claude, beckoning him close. Hesitant, Claude approached.

"It's possible that one of the other parties has placed listening devices in this room. Were they left alone in here, like we were?" Napoleon asked, his voice soft.

Claude, wide eyed, nodded. "I say," he whispered. With a jerk of his head, he summoned Eustace, and both of them sat on the couch with Napoleon, leaning in close. "What can we do?"

The butler appeared at the door to the sitting room. "You rang, Mr Wooster?"

Claude shooed him away with an angry gesture of his hand. "Not right now, Nkaiseng," he snapped. The butler's eyebrow quirked, but he turned silently and departed without saying another word.

Illya pulled a cigarette case from one pocket and pulled out a small tube, concealed as a cigarette. He attached it to a slot in the cigarette case and, giving it a twist, it sprouted a small cone. With the flick of a switch, he activated the interference device, its high-pitched hum barely audible. "So long as we are quiet," he said, "this will give us a short range within which we may speak safely. It offers some sonic jamming capabilities."

"I say," Claude whispered again, impressed.

"Now," Illya said, "what is it that your cousin did not wish you to tell anyone?"

"I'm worried about him," Eustace said. "Very worried. I mean to say, Jeeves is a clever chap -- the cleverest, really -- but I don't know if even he can keep Bertie safe right now. I mean, we're all getting on in years, what? And Jeeves is older than Bertie."

"It's just all so cloak and dagger," Claude added. "Reminds me of the War, you know."

"Oh?" Napoleon was uncertain what Claude meant by that.

Claude sighed. "Bertie just has a habit of getting mixed up in the strangest things. He never intends to, you know. Things just _happen_ to him." He looked up at Napoleon. "If he didn't have Jeeves looking out for him, he'd have biffed off for the Pearly Gates ages ago. I swear he won't survive the man by ten minutes. Never has a more gormless git walked the earth." Napoleon stared at him.

"That's just uncharitable," Eustace grumbled. "Some of Jeeves's brains have rubbed off on him over the years. You know it as well as I do."

Claude sagged. "Well, all right. That's true enough."

"Can we get on with it?" Illya glowered at the twins. "We've lost four days already. The longer your cousin and his valet are out there, the more likely it is that they will be found by the wrong people. I can assure you, you do not want this to happen."

"What will you do if you find him?" Eustace asked.

"We have orders to bring them safely to New York," Napoleon said.

Claude and Eustace looked at each other for a long moment of silent communication. They nodded in unison. "Right," Claude said.

"Bertie's got a flat there. Loves New York, he does," Eustace added.

"He said something weird about birds," Claude continued. "Wrens?"

Eustace shook his head. "No, thrushes. Strange, really. He's never been very interested in birds unless he was eating one."

Napoleon, startled, looked up at Illya. Lord Yaxley knew about THRUSH? "What, exactly, did he say?"

Eustace screwed his face up into a tight knot of concentration. "He said, 'those bally thrushes are at it again,' which I might add makes absolutely no sense, as there wasn't a bloody bird around anywhere, and then he and Jeeves gave each other a look, and Jeeves said, 'we must leave immediately, sir,' and they dashed out without so much as a by your leave."

"What caused your cousin to say this?" Illya asked.

Claude tilted his head. "I'm not at all sure. They were upstairs, you know, where the bodies were found. Bertie was trying to get away from some woman again, that's why he dashed up there. God only knows what they see in him. He's never been quite right in the head."

"Can't scrape them off with a bloody straight razor," Eustace concurred. "Never has been able to. This one was the ex-wife of some ambassador. Peruvian, Claude?"

"No, no, Brazilian. Bertie has a flat in Rio, remember? She wanted him to take her back home." Claude waved a hand dismissively. "Not that it matters."

"Gentlemen," Illya growled. They both snapped their eyes to him.

"Sorry," Claude yipped, looking like a grey-haired rabbit.

Illya fixed Claude with a glare. "We are wasting time. Do you know anything at all that might lead us to them?"

"Well, I don't think they'd go to any of Bertie's usual haunts," Claude offered. "I mean to say, he usually stays here, but sometimes he wants a little quiet, away from the family, you know, and he'll stay at Foxwood House. The club he used to frequent closed last year, so that's not useful at all."

Eustace shook his head. "No, he wouldn't be at Foxwood. It would be too obvious. None of the better hotels here in the city, either. Jeeves probably knows someplace where his sort might stay if they were traveling, though."

"His sort?" Napoleon asked, trying to be patient. They were making some slight headway and he didn't want to distract the men.

"Well, you know, servants, old thing. White ones, anyway." Eustace shrugged. Napoleon could see the look of distaste on Illya's face over the statement. "I think Jeeves has some friends in town -- other servants and all, I suppose -- though mostly he sticks to Bertie like glue." He paused for a moment, tapping a finger on his chin. "No, no, wait. I know." He looked at Claude. "Jeeves always manages to make Bertie take him fishing somewhere or other, you remember?"

"The Bronkhorstspruit Dam," Claude said. "There's a little place out there they rent. It's fifty or sixty miles from here. Closer to Pretoria, really."

"That's the place," Eustace agreed. "I'm sure they'll be there. It's quiet and Bertie hates fishing, so nobody would think he'd go there if he's in trouble. Bertie's always been a city creature. Hates the _veldt_. Can't stand the countryside for more than a couple of weeks running."

Another few minutes of quiet wrangling extracted a location and vague directions from the twins, along with Napoleon's assurances that they would be informed when their cousin was safely in New York. Once they were back in their car, Illya sat back in the passenger seat, cradling his head with both hands. "I do hope that Lord Yaxley isn't as inane as those two," he grumbled, though there was little hope in his voice.

"With any luck, we'll find out soon." Napoleon shifted the car into gear and they headed out toward the Bronkhorstspruit Dam.

***

The drive out to the reservoir took over three hours, with a lengthy, nerve-wracking stop for a herd of wildebeest milling slowly over the road from Johannesburg. A few inquiries in the small town of Bronkhorstspruit finally got them directions to the place where Lord Yaxley was staying. It was a small cabin near the shores of the reservoir, set into a stand of large jacaranda trees. Illya could see a dock jutting out into the water, with a rowboat tied alongside. There was an old, battered Land Rover parked so that it was barely visible between the cabin and the trees. He saw no other vehicles and no sign of violence, but it was always possible that THRUSH had come and gone, or that the place was under surveillance from a distance, among the scrub, the tall grasses, and the sparse thorn trees.

Napoleon stopped their own vehicle in plain view of the cabin and turned off the engine. He eyed the cabin. "You suppose they'll shoot first and ask questions later?"

"I doubt it," Illya said. "This Jeeves fellow seems cautious, from what the file and the Wooster brothers have said." Napoleon nodded as they got out of the car. They strolled up and knocked on the door.

"Hello?" Napoleon called.

A deep, cultured baritone voice responded, "Please identify yourselves, gentlemen." There was no other sound from within, and Illya doubted the door would open immediately.

"My name is Napoleon Solo. My partner is Illya Kuryakin. We've been sent by the UNCLE."

"If you would slide your identification cards under the door, gentlemen, it would be greatly appreciated."

Illya raised an eyebrow. The door, of course, could have been shot through or kicked in if someone had wanted to, but he suspected the valet was armed. The door looked quite sturdy. It would probably take a few kicks to get through. With a shrug, he drew his wallet from his pocket and pulled out his identification card as Napoleon did the same. Napoleon took both of them and stepped forward, crouching to slip the thin cards through the space beneath the door. There was a short pause as their identification was, presumably, examined. The door opened slightly. "Please enter slowly, gentlemen, and keep your hands visible."

Napoleon entered first, edging the door open, with his empty hands extended slightly from his sides. Illya followed him from the bright, late afternoon sunlight into the dimly lit interior of the cabin. A formidable-looking older man who could only be Reginald Jeeves stood across the room with a pistol pointed at them; his hand was utterly steady. He was solid and much taller than he'd seemed in the photographs, towering above Napoleon. Where his face in the file photograph had been expressionless, the man in the flesh was positively grim. He was impeccably dressed in a dark formal suit and tie, even here in the middle of nowhere, with not a hair nor a thread out of place. He would have seemed excessively dignified and elegant even in a royal palace, Illya thought; seeing him here like this was completely incongruous.

"Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin." Jeeves looked them over and Illya felt as though he were being examined under a microscope. "From which office have you come?" There was an air about the man that suggested he would shoot without compunction if he suspected anything about them was out of place. It was a thing Illya could respect.

"We were sent from New York, with instructions to bring you and Lord Yaxley safely back to UNCLE Headquarters there," Napoleon responded.

Jeeves nodded. "That would explain the delay, then. I trust your flight was uneventful, gentlemen."

Napoleon looked at Illya, a question in his eyes. "We were expected, I take it," Illya said.

"Indeed, sir. Were you followed?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Not unless they were disguised as wildebeest."

While Jeeves didn't smile, the tension in the room did ease. "It appears that you match your identification, gentlemen. I apologize for meeting you with a gun in hand, but I am certain you understand the necessity."

"Of course. Where is Lord Yaxley?" Illya asked.

Jeeves tucked the pistol into a holster at the small of his back in a single, fluid motion, and approached to hand them their identification cards. The big man was graceful and walked with a quiet that was almost uncanny. After handing them their identification, he went to the closed door near the opposite end of the room and opened it. "Sir," he said softly, "it is safe." Stepping back, he held the door open. "Lord Yaxley, Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin have arrived from New York."

The man who entered from the bedroom was taller than Napoleon, though not as tall as Jeeves. Slender, elegant, and slightly nervous, he was dressed in a flawless, stylishly sophisticated cream linen suit, set off by a brilliant canary yellow tie. Illya would have sworn that if looks could incinerate, Jeeves's glare at the tie would have turned it immediately to ash. Disapproval dripped from the man's pores without more than the most subtle shift in his expression. "What ho, chaps?" Lord Yaxley said, stepping forward and offering a hand to Napoleon, who shook it. He then offered it to Illya. The man's grip was strong, though he looked pale and half exhausted. Jeeves hovered protectively, less than an arm's length behind him and slightly to one side; Illya could see that he, also, appeared to have lost sleep recently. Unsurprising, given the situation.

"Lord Yaxley," Napoleon said, "we've come to bring you home to New York."

Yaxley turned a heart-stoppingly brilliant smile on them and offered an enthusiastic, "I say. That sounds just topping. I've been away from the old metrop for too long. And please, my dear chaps, call me Bertie. That Lord Yaxley nonsense is only fit for high society whatsits." He waved a hand dismissively. Illya could feel the level of disapproval emanating from the valet edging up slightly.

"Napoleon, then," his partner said. "And this is Illya."

"Delighted. Can I offer you chaps some tea?"

"I could not advise it, sir," Jeeves said, his eyes on Bertie. "We have been here too long already. It would be best if we were to depart immediately. I believe we may have been under surveillance for approximately the last two hours."

Bertie looked up at his valet. "Hair on the back of the neck doing that tingly thing, what?"

"The local fauna have not been as active as one might expect for this hour, sir," Jeeves said. "One might infer that there has been unusual movement in the vicinity to silence the wildlife."

Napoleon gave the man a sharp look. "That's a very astute observation, Mr Jeeves."

Jeeves nodded, a slight tip of the chin. "Simply Jeeves, sir, if you would. Our valise has remained ready since our arrival, as we have been anticipating your visit. I hope that we are not too late to make an exit." His eyes flicked to Bertie for a moment, then back to Napoleon.

Bertie sighed and turned, patting Jeeves on the shoulder, letting his hand linger for a moment. "Right then. If it were done when 'tis done, then something whatsit, and we'd best be off. Scoop up the valise, Jeeves, and let's put a few hundred miles between us and whomever's lurking about out there."

"Indeed, sir." Jeeves glided across the room and picked up a small black valise that had been sitting unnoticed beside the cabin's front door. "May I suggest, gentlemen, that we depart with all due caution." He drew his pistol again, holding it at the ready, and nodded to them. Napoleon raised an eyebrow but drew his own weapon and Illya followed suit. The man was paranoid, Illya thought, though most likely with very good reason. He obviously knew what he was doing. Napoleon opened the cabin door and the agents led the way out, with Bertie behind them and Jeeves as close as the man's shadow, all of them watching the surroundings as they moved.

They hadn't got more than six yards from the door when the crack of a rifle shot sounded. Bertie gave a startled yelp and the agents spun toward the report. In his peripheral vision, Illya could see Jeeves putting himself between Bertie and the sniper, shielding the man with his body. Jeeves shoved him into the copse of trees that concealed the Land Rover before dropping them both into the vegetation. Illya and Napoleon gave covering fire, following the men hurriedly as fragrant purple blossoms rained down on them, disturbed by the firefight. Illya dropped to one knee next to Jeeves, who was already wrapping Bertie's wounded thigh with the canary yellow tie to stop the bleeding.

"Is he all right?" Illya asked, firing again as Napoleon dived for the shelter of a fallen log.

"I'm fine, fine," Bertie snapped through clenched teeth, his sky blue eyes tight with pain. The cream linen of his suit was streaked with blood and covered in dirt and green stains from his skid through leaves and grass.

Jeeves drew a key fob from his pocket and slapped it into Illya's hand. "The Land Rover, sir," he said. "We won't make it to your vehicle."

Illya nodded. "I'll get it started." Jeeves drew his pistol again and popped up to fire, drawing a final-sounding grunt from one of the distant shooters. "Not bad," Illya said.

"We can discuss my marksmanship once we are in a more secure position, sir," Jeeves said, tucking an arm under Bertie's shoulders to ready him for the transfer to the Rover. Bertie gripped his wounded leg with one hand and clung to Jeeves with the other.

Illya took Jeeves's statement with equanimity and nodded to Napoleon, who rolled forward to lean on his sheltering log, opening fire on their assailants. Illya could see a flash of sun on a THRUSH scope in the distance and sprinted for the vehicle, moving swiftly from tree to shrub as he avoided flying bullets. Napoleon's covering fire was joined by several well-placed shots from Jeeves as the Land Rover rumbled to life. Throwing the vehicle into gear, Illya kept himself low, as sheltered by the door panels as possible, putting the Rover between the snipers and his charges. Jeeves opened the back door and tossed the valise inside, then heaved Bertie in; Bertie quite sensibly lay himself flat on the back seat as Jeeves lunged in, settling onto the floor, keeping his head low as he made a swift examination of his employer.

Napoleon was still shooting, though now only one sniper continued firing on their position. Illya backed the Rover swiftly up to the log and Napoleon threw himself into the front seat beside him, slamming the door. Bullets ricocheted off the frame of the vehicle and spiderwebbed the windscreen, and Illya flinched away from the impacts. "There were three of them," Napoleon said, firing through the window as Illya jammed the Rover into first gear and stomped on the gas. Everyone was thrown back against the seats; there was an 'oof' from Bertie, and Illya nearly stripped the gears getting the Rover up to speed, leaving the single remaining sniper in the dust.

"Are you all right back there?" Napoleon asked, leaning over the back of his seat while Illya concentrated on controlling the speeding Rover.

"I-it's not too bad," Bertie quavered, sounding like an old man for the first time.

"It will require several stitches," Jeeves said, his voice firm and unshaken, "but that can wait until we are safe. I fear, sir, that your tie is unsalvageable, however." Illya was convinced there was a bit of smug satisfaction lurking in that statement.

"I swear you plan these wardrobe disasters, Jeeves," Bertie grumbled, breathless. "My fruitiest ties never seem to make it more than a day." His fingers tightened on the back of Illya's seat and he hissed as the Rover bounded over the rough landscape.

The sound of reproval was thick in Jeeves's voice. "I would never plan to have you shot, sir, regardless of the unsuitability of your neckwear."

Napoleon pulled his pen communicator from his pocket and activated it. "Open Channel D, please."

"Channel D open." The woman's voice was smooth, with an Afrikaans accent.

"Solo here. We -- _oof_ \-- have our guests and are returning to Johannesburg. Please arrange for transportation."

"Of course, Mr Solo. We'll have a jet fueled and ready for your departure at dawn, per UNCLE New York. You'll have clearance to Anfa in Casablanca. Our office will place you and your guests in a safehouse for the night."

"Thank you, Riette. Will I have time see you before we leave?" Napoleon purred, utterly shameless, as always. Illya rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps next time, Mr Solo. I'm afraid I'm on the late shift tonight. Do you require anything else?"

"You might want to send a cleanup crew to Bronkhorstspruit. We've left behind a pile of feathers and a wounded bird."

"I'll see to it, Mr Solo. Johannesburg out."

Napoleon settled back, a regretful smile on his face. Illya could hear movement in the seat behind him and hazarded a swift glance in the rearview mirror. Jeeves had shifted himself up into the seat, leaning against the Rover's door, and was gently rearranging Bertie so that the man could lie more comfortably in his arms. Bertie's eyes were squeezed shut, his face lined with pain as his fingers clenched on Jeeves's shoulder. The worry in the valet's eyes and the care in his touch as he held Bertie to him were the first signs of genuine emotion Illya had seen in the man. For the first time since he had met them, Illya could actually believe these men were lovers. It was an unsettling feeling.

***

Napoleon turned his attention from his scan of the scrub along the road toward the back seat when Bertie spoke. "Thanks awfully for that timely extraction from the soup, Napoleon, old boy," Bertie said, his voice still tight with pain. "And you, Illya. I really don't know how much longer we'd have made it if those sniper chaps had decided to drop in for tea."

"I would imagine only until dusk, sir," Jeeves said. "Certainly they would have attempted something at that point. I am only surprised it took them three days to find us."

"You'd have got us out of it, old thing," Bertie insisted.

Jeeves shook his head. "I would certainly have attempted it, but the odds were not good, sir." An understatement if Napoleon had ever heard one. Three trained THRUSH assassins against a seventy-year-old valet with a pistol was hardly worth laying odds at all. Waverly had been right about Jeeves's loyalties, though; Napoleon had no doubt the man would have died trying to protect Bertie, and done so without hesitation.

"You handled yourself well back there, Jeeves," Napoleon said. The valet had reacted like a professional, keeping his head under fire. It wasn't hard to believe he'd been decorated for valor during the first world war.

"I take my responsibilities extremely seriously, Mr Solo." He shifted slightly as the Rover sped along the road, the sun shimmering, red, toward the horizon. "I trust a doctor will be available when we reach your office in the city." One of Jeeves's hands slipped down Bertie's side to the bloody yellow tie wrapped around his thigh.

Bertie hissed at the touch, flinching as his fingers tightened on Jeeves's shoulder again. "Easy, old fruit. That hurts."

"My apologies, sir." His voice was soft as he looked at the man he held steady in his arms.

Sighing, Bertie said, "I'll be fine, Jeeves. I've had worse, what?" He gasped as the Rover hit a pothole and bounced hard. "I'll be dashed glad when we get to that doctor, though."

"We'll have you stitched up in no time, Bertie," Napoleon assured him, turning his eyes back to the passing scrub to offer the pair some slight privacy. "How did you manage to get mixed up in this whole thing, anyway?"

Bertie gave a sharp, uncomfortable laugh. "Trying to escape another marriage-minded divorcée," he said, with an air of bitter resignation. "I swear, the woman was stalking me. Every time I turned around, there she was, fluttering her eyes like she had a gnat embedded in them. The woman's an oil tanker in a bleached blond beehive. Voice like a foghorn." Illya smothered a laugh and Napoleon couldn't help smiling himself. "They find out that no filly has ever slapped the shackles on me and suddenly it's open season on old Bertram."

"Mrs Cardoso was, I believe, more interested in your potential to return her to Brazil, sir, than in your actual person," Jeeves said.

"Well, that just makes it worse, doesn't it? She wasn't even actually interested in _me_ at all." Bertie sighed. "None of them ever are, really. I was never anything more than a walking bank account to a single bally one of them." He paused for a moment. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder to catch the two older men exchanging a soft, affectionate look, as though they were the only people in existence; it vanished like smoke a second later. They were obviously used to concealing themselves. When Bertie spoke again, the edge of anger and resentment in his voice had faded. "So anyway, I dashed up the stairs and made a courageous stand behind a nice, thick velvet curtain and the next thing I knew these two chappies were having words in a language I didn't understand, waving things about, and shooting each other in the hallway in front of me. A bit heated it was, too."

"What were they waving around?" Illya asked.

"An envelope," Bertie said. "One of those manilla thingummies, you know, like you get from the solicitor's. Well, and pistols, too, but that was a few harsh paragraphs later. I'm just lucky neither of them accidentally shot me when the bullets started flying. They'd no idea I was there, of course. I shudder to think what might have happened if they did."

"You would likely be as dead as they, sir," Jeeves said, his voice cold as an arctic ice sheet.

"Yes. Erm. Well, nobody heard the shots but me. Silencers on their pistols, you see. Ordinarily I'd have legged it and found one of the security blokes, but one chappie's pistol grip, well, it had one of those black birds on it. Nasty lot, THRUSH. I knew it really wouldn't do to let the whole thing pass, given I had no idea what they'd been up to, so I snatched up the envelope, found Jeeves, and we made the dash. One doesn't take a chance with that sort of bird, of course. Anyone could have been in on it. Claude and Eustace did go on about us galloping off, I must say. They didn't understand why I was so hot to get out of there, but it was a rum sitch and I had no idea if any others were about. I couldn't very well tell that pair of matched blisters; my cousins would never believe me, you know. They still think I'm rather more dim than I really am, but I can't say as I've ever tried to disa-whatsit them. Strip the old wool from the eyes, so to speak."

"Disabuse, sir," Jeeves supplied.

"That's the chappie. Disabuse."

"I've been meaning to ask how you knew about THRUSH," Napoleon said. "Why you recognized their seal." He met Bertie's eyes and held them in the lowering dusk.

"Well, I mean to say, we've run into those rotters before. After the War and all. It's a longish story, really, and I'm afraid I just don't have the ginger for it right now." Bertie's fingers tightened on Jeeves's shoulder again as the Rover bounced. He leaned into Jeeves, panting slightly, and the man drew him closer, holding him against his chest as Bertie rested his forehead on Jeeves's other shoulder. "I'm desperate for a gasper," he muttered.

"Lord Yaxley has not slept more than six hours in the last three days, and he is injured," Jeeves said. "I understand your curiosity, gentlemen, but I would ask you to allow him to rest before we continue this conversation." Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a silver cigarette case and offered one to Bertie. Bertie took it and rested his hand back on Jeeves's shoulder for a moment, not bringing it to his lips.

"You do still have the papers," Illya said, his eyes rising to the rearview mirror.

Jeeves nodded. "They are safe for the moment, sir." On the valet or in the valise, Napoleon thought. Safe enough for now, as Jeeves had said.

Napoleon gestured toward Jeeves. "You haven't slept much either, I take it."

"No, sir." Jeeves shook his head. "I could not allow Lord Yaxley to remain unguarded. We had reason to believe that, at some point, we would be pursued. It proved to be the case, as you saw, sir."

"You will be able to sleep tonight," Illya said. "The safehouse will be secure, and other UNCLE agents will be there to keep watch."

Bertie's head rose and he turned toward them, slipping the cigarette between his lips. Jeeves lit it for him. "What, you chaps won't be with us anymore?" Bertie asked, puffing a couple of times, then letting out a relieved sigh, no doubt calmed by the tobacco. "I thought you were taking us to New York."

"We'll be in the room with you, as a last line of defense if it's needed, but we've been traveling for the past two days and it'll be good to get a little sleep before we fly out at dawn," Napoleon replied. "At this point, we know that THRUSH is actively looking for you, and there will be four other agents on shifts through the night for your protection."

"Oh." Bertie nodded, looking slightly uneasy. "Right ho." Jeeves just nodded in silence. His face was still the same expressionless mask it had been except during a couple of brief, unguarded moments, but Napoleon thought he detected an air of relief and satisfaction about him nonetheless.

***

The ride back to Johannesburg had been bumpy and uncomfortable and it had jarred his leg entirely too many times. The stitching up wheeze had been equally painful, at least until that shot of anesthetic had taken effect, and his poor yellow tie had been ruined beyond any hope of salvaging. Bertie was none too hopeful about his trousers, either, really. It was enough to make a chap despair. That, and the whole having to get up before dawn thingummy. Horrid thought, really. At least nobody else had been hurt.

They were settled now, in a small upper storey room in a warehouse. He was a bit disturbed to note there were only two beds, but neither of the young chaps with them seemed particularly bothered by it. Jeeves, however, objected quite strenuously. "It would be exceedingly improper, sir," he insisted, as Bertie stood there and stared at the whole rummy sitch.

"There are extenuating circumstances," Illya, the short blond one, said from his seat on one of the beds. The young Russian's eyes were a startling cobalt shade, rather like Jeeves's favorite of Bertie's ties. Not that Bertie had ever minded sharing his bed with Jeeves -- he preferred it that way, in fact -- but appearances must be maintained.

"It's all right, Jeeves," Bertie said, resting a hand on the man's arm for a moment. "I'm really more concerned with having a desperate measure and a bit of a splash about to get the blood and all this filth off me." He gestured to his shockingly dirty, formerly cream colored suit.

"Desperate measure?" Napoleon asked. He was taller than his friend; a remarkably suave brunet, with eyes a darker brown than his hair. Fine looking young man. Cary Grant-ish, a bit. Both of them were quite handsome, really, each in their own way. Bertie thoroughly approved.

"Lord Yaxley requires a drink, sir, if such a thing might be available." Jeeves was straight as a tree by his side, reliable as he'd ever been. "And then I shall run you a bath, sir," he said to Bertie, "though you must be careful, as the doctor instructed, not to get the stitches wet." What Bertie really wanted was an extended lie down with Jeeves wrapped around him, but he definitely needed an application of alcohol and a bath first. His nerves were entirely jangled.

Napoleon nodded. "Right. Well. I can't say that we've got a large selection, but I do think we can manage something for you." A brief conversation with one of the chaps outside the door netted him a bottle of whisky and a glass. "Will this do?" he asked.

"Admirably, sir, thank you," Jeeves said, taking the items. He poured Bertie a shot and handed it to him, setting the bottle down. "I shall see to your bath, sir," he murmured, letting his fingers brush Bertie's as the glass passed between them.

"Right ho," Bertie said, following him into the small washroom as he got himself outside his drink. He closed the door behind them as Jeeves started the water, and leaned against the solidity of it. A moment later, Jeeves wrapped his arms about him and Bertie attempted to hug the stuffing out of the man. "How many times have I told you not to put yourself between Bertram and flying bullets, Reg?" Bertie's stern chastisement was quiet in deference to the men on the other side of the door, but he thought the running water would cover their conversation enough to actually have one.

"I shall do whatever becomes necessary to keep you safe, Bertram," Jeeves said into his ear. "If that means I must place myself between you and a gunman, then that is what I shall do, and I shall do so gladly."

"I'll have you know, I'm getting a bit old to have to go out looking for a substitute love of my life, so don't you dare make me," he said, and he meant it to sting.

Jeeves chuckled, a soft rumble that Bertie felt more than heard. "That has never been my intention. Believe me, my goal is to keep both of us alive for many more years to come." He tilted his head and placed a gentle kiss on Bertie's lips, then stepped back and gave Bertie a critical look up and down, his hands still about the willowy Wooster waist. "I will admit I had not anticipated quite this much of a mess. I do have another pair of trousers for you, but I will have to do something about that jacket."

Bertie glowered at him. "Well, you can do that something after we've had some sleep, what? You've barely had a wink since this whole wheeze started and I know you're about to plant your nose in the floor, just like me. Quite unbecoming, old thing. It would completely ruin your image as a paragon among men."

"That would be entirely unacceptable, I agree," Jeeves said, that tiny hint of a smile that Bertie adored quirking his lips. He started in on Bertie's buttons and in a moment had whisked the entire husk away. "Remember to keep the wound out of the water," he said, offering Bertie a hand to step into the shallow tub before he turned off the tap.

Bertie eased into the blessedly hot water with a sigh, lying on one side to keep his leg up. "Good lord, I don't think a bath has felt this good in years," he murmured, resting his head on the ceramic. "Don't let me fall asleep in here. I'd likely drown."

Jeeves's fingers ran through Bertie's hair in a slow caress. "I must deal with your clothing and a few other details, love. I will be back in a few minutes with your pyjamas so that you can go to bed."

"And you?"

"A shower would be quite welcome before I join you."

Bertie nodded. "All right, then. Leave the door open a bit when you go, would you?" Jeeves never made a sound when he moved, but Bertie rather needed the reassurance of friendly voices at the mo. and he could hear the soft, indistinct murmur of the two UNCLE agents in the other room already, now that the faucets had been turned off.

"Of course." Jeeves left Bertie with a final, fond nuzzle at his temple, letting the door remain slightly open when he departed. Bertie sighed, resting for a moment before he picked up the soap and a cloth and gave himself a quick wash. He was feeling a distinct lack of rubber ducky, but one did have to expect a few privations when on the run from evildoers. He found the calm conversation in the other room soothing; he'd spent too much time the past few days in strained silence, worrying about sudden sounds just outside the windows of their cabin. The whisky was already taking effect, leaving Bertie feeling a bit tight.

He could smell gun oil in the next room, and cheap Turkish tobacco. Everybody cleaning weapons, no doubt. Jeeves had always said it was important, though Bertie had never wanted anything to do with guns at all. Dashed nasty things, practically guaranteed to ruin a good party. Napoleon and Illya talked, teasing each other with a great deal of fondness about the damage to the Rover, girls, the THRUSH agents they'd been shooting at, and the dirt all over Napoleon's snappy suit.

Now there was a lad with a sartorial style that even Jeeves couldn't fault. The chap's tie was a series of respectable dark stripes, the navy blue jacket impeccable, and all the details were properly seen to, soup to nuts. It was probably giving Jeeves happy flutters about the old cardiac region. Well, except that ring the man wore on his little finger; that was just a bit juicy, Bertie thought approvingly. Showed the kid had a bit of zip. Some ginger in him. Probably charmed the fillies like nobody's business. He'd certainly been smooth enough with that gal on the radio.

Perhaps, Bertie thought as he swished away the topsoil, if Napoleon were about, he might not have to dodge so many of them for a change. Bertie had never understood why women didn't launch themselves at Jeeves the way they always had at the Wooster corpus. The man might be seventy now, but he was still the handsomest thing Bertie had ever laid eyes on.

At just the proper moment, Jeeves shimmered in with the coral pyjamas and helped Bertie to his feet. The old pin was still quite achy after the stitches and Bertie was hoping a night's rest would do him some good. It was the work of a moment to dry off and get slapped into the silken nightclothes, and Bertie leaned on Jeeves slightly more than he actually needed to on the way to the bed just so that he could spend a little more time surreptitiously hanging onto his beloved.

"Are you feeling any better?" Illya asked, regarding him over a cup of coffee while Napoleon lounged quite indolently beside him, already beneath the covers as he snubbed out a gasper in the ashtray beside the bed.

Bertie nodded. "Just the stuff for the troops, my boy, thank you." He smiled at the young Russian, who simply nodded in approval. Bertie plopped himself down on his own bed and let Jeeves tuck him in. The moment his head was properly introduced to the pillow, he realized just how dizzy with exhaustion he'd been. With a sigh, he snugged himself down as best he could into the hard, lumpy mattress. "I'm off for a few rounds with that Morpheus johnny. Good night, chaps."

Illya and Napoleon wished him a good night, and Jeeves said, "I shall join you in a few moments, sir," in that wonderfully resonant voice of his that always seemed to set Bertie vibrating.

"Just spiffing, old thing," Bertie murmured. "Hurry back." While Jeeves showered, Illya finished his coffee, turned off the overhead lights, stripped down to his pants and undervest, and popped into the bed next to Napoleon, who was similarly attired. There was only a dim line of light under the washroom door seeping into the room; there were no windows here to let in a little cheerful moonlight, but Bertie really wasn't sure windows were quite on at the moment anyway, given that windows could be climbed through by desperate sorts in search of missing documents.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Bertie turned his head toward the other bed. His two young guardians lay facing away from each other, pressed close against one another's backs, apparently already asleep if the soft rhythm of their breath was anything to judge by. Some chaps just seemed to have a talent for falling into the deep and dreamless the moment head touched p. He listened to the water falling, until it stopped, and then waited in the silence for Jeeves to return.

Jeeves materialized next to the bed right about when Bertie expected him to, slipping in beside him, warm and clean and smelling like a slightly soapy slice of heaven. Bertie rolled onto his side and wrapped his lover in his arms. Said wrapping was returned with interest. It was more than a bit odd to have his limbs knotted with Jeeves's while they were in the same room with anyone else, but Bertie wasn't going to object. He always slept better when Jeeves was with him and quite resented the way the world conspired to keep them apart if he was visiting with anyone. While some people knew, of course -- that scandal back in '39 had taken its toll, and he did have some bohemian friends who didn't care at all -- it didn't do to advertise the fact. Aside from that whole illegality wheeze and the threat of gaol or worse, depending on where they were, there was always the chance that someone would take personal offense and try biffing him in the nose or something. A fate to be avoided when possible, as nose-biffing was rarely comfortable or pleasant. A couple of silent but thoroughly enjoyable kisses were exchanged before Bertie passed into the land of dream, feeling quite safe and loved in a warm Jeevesian embrace.

***

Illya woke to a comfortable, unfamiliar warmth in the pitch black of the safehouse room. One of Napoleon's arms was cast over his waist, holding him close. There was a slow, quiet tickle of breath against his temple and the press of a morning erection against his hip. Leave it to Napoleon, Illya thought, allowing himself to enjoy the moment while it lasted. Probably dreaming of some blond bombshell, given his friend's propensities. There was no sense in feeling any sort of jealousy, of course; the idea of wanting to have someone like Napoleon was like wanting the tide to stop its ebb and flow, an utter impossibility. With a silent sigh, Illya reached over and turned the bedside lamp on to its lowest setting, not wanting to wake the men in the next bed. He preferred to let them sleep at least a little longer, given their last few days. Once they were in the air, they would be able to sleep aboard the plane if they wished.

Napoleon's eyes flickered open in the dim light, still sleepy for a fraction of a second, his arm tightening reflexively about Illya's body. They stared at each other for an awkward moment, nose to nose, before embarrassment flushed Napoleon's face and he let go. "Sorry," Napoleon mouthed, not actually saying the word. Illya nodded and rose, choosing to ignore the whole thing despite what his body wanted, and he put his clothes on quickly while Napoleon rolled out of bed and moved quietly into the bathroom.

As he buttoned his shirt, Illya's attention turned to the men in the other bed. The old valet lay close behind his lover, their bodies twined like the links of a herringbone chain. Asleep, Jeeves's face was no longer a cold mask of vague disapproval; he looked like a tired old man, his face lined and careworn from lack of sleep and the heaviness of his responsibility, his steel grey hair rumpled in disarray. One hand was splayed, lax, on Bertie's abdomen as if frozen in mid-caress. As Illya drew his tie about his neck and knotted it, Jeeves shifted slightly in his sleep, nuzzling Bertie's ear, a fond expression blossoming on his face. Illya could see the exact moment when Jeeves woke and remembered he was not alone in the room with Bertie -- his body stiffened almost imperceptibly and he drew cautiously away from his lover before opening his eyes, his face shuttering entirely, as though a switch had been thrown. He looked up at Illya, who simply finished knotting his tie and nodded to the man. Jeeves regarded him with suspicion and curiosity as Illya turned away and went to the door. Illya stuck his head out to ask the guard there to bring them breakfast.

"It'll be about twenty minutes," the guard said, obviously bored.

"I shall let them know," Illya replied with a nod. He closed the door and turned his attention back to the room, where Napoleon was emerging from the bathroom already dressed. Jeeves had soundlessly risen and got his own clothing together, entering the bathroom himself, only to emerge barely a moment later, once again impeccably dressed and perfectly unruffled, while Bertie remained alone in bed, asleep.

The man moved with an eerie silence, swiftly restoring Bertie's cream colored jacket to order and setting out the rest of his clothing for the day. By the time breakfast arrived, Bertie was standing groggily next to the bed while Jeeves dressed him with quick efficiency. Once dressed, Bertie sat on the bed again and Jeeves brought him food and coffee. They spoke softly to one another as Illya and Napoleon ate and made last minute checks of their weapons.

"I'm sure the birds aren't even up just yet," Bertie grumbled, finishing his coffee and setting the cup on a bedside table. He looked barely awake, even now.

"Our plane departs at dawn," Jeeves said. "You will be able to rest once we are aboard, sir."

Bertie nodded, yawning. "Yes, yes, I know. And we should be in New York late tomorrow sometime, I suppose?"

"The next day, more likely," Illya said. "There is a good chance we will spend the night at our transfer point before flying out to New York."

"I say, we aren't transferring through London after Casablanca, are we?" Bertie looked up at him, nervous through his obvious exhaustion. "We're a bit _persona non granite_ in old blighty, you see."

" _Non grata_ , sir," Jeeves corrected gently. Illya resisted the urge to smile.

"Yes, right, _non grata_. That's the chap. Means we're not particularly welcome." Bertie tensed slightly, probably wondering if the agents would ask why.

"I'm not sure where we're transferring as yet, but I'm sure it's not London," Napoleon said, packing the last of their gear in the small bag they'd brought. Jeeves's eyebrow rose slightly. "We'd been informed of your difficulties there," Napoleon added. "It's not going to be a problem, I assure you."

Bertie relaxed at that. "Oh, well. Spiffing. Glad to hear it."

"It is time to go, sir," Jeeves said, offering Bertie a hand to rise. Bertie had been favoring his injured leg since he got out of bed; it was probably quite stiff and still sore, Illya thought.

Their trip to the airport was silent and blessedly uneventful, with Bertie nodding off on the way. They boarded the private UNCLE jet as the sky lightened, pink and azure, in the east. Their flight would take them north and west, over the heart of Africa; at nearly five thousand miles distance and with several short refueling stops at small bush airports, it would be a very long day. Napoleon reported in to New York with their progress before takeoff, settling back into one of the comfortable seats in the Learjet as he told Jeeves where the safety equipment was. Bertie seemed impressed by the fancy aircraft, chattering cheerfully as they rolled down the runway. "I still like the old ocean liners best, though," he said, a bit of fond melancholy in his voice, "if I have to travel at all. Much more comfortable, really. I'm always just a little nervous on a plane, honestly. It seems like it would be such a horrible thing to fall out of the sky if anything went wrong." Jeeves sat next to him, quiet but attentive, fading into the background like the nobleman's shadow when he wasn't lighting a cigarette or doing some other small thing for Bertie.

Illya watched them for a couple of hours as Bertie rattled on, telling stories about his life, filled with digressions, bizarre improbabilities, and self-deprecating humor. Some of his tales were really very funny, though most of them involved Bertie's attempts to either avoid marriage or repair the disastrous engagements of his friends and acquaintances. His use of language was unusual and engaging, and Illya could see why Mr Waverly had described him as both harmless and eccentric. The man was really quite charming, entirely unlike the arrogant and overprivileged Englishman, Emory Partridge. The man had tried to kill him and Napoleon in the English country town of Eastsnout; Partridge had ruled the place like his own personal medieval fiefdom. Lord Yaxley obviously had no designs whatsoever on political power and did not even seem to care terribly much about his immense fortune; most of his tales actually featured his valet Jeeves as the real hero behind the scenes. Bertie's deep and honest admiration for the man's intelligence and capability was quite obvious and rather touching. Illya found himself wishing that more people were as friendly and genuinely kind as this man seemed to be.

He watched Jeeves as much as Bertie, observing the subtle shifts in the man's face and demeanor as Bertie talked. There was a hint of pleasure in his eyes, and the barest edge of a smile when Bertie offered his praise for his valet's cleverness and capability. Jeeves's face tightened just a bit in distaste when Bertie talked about his one attempt to grow a mustache. One would have to watch Jeeves carefully to see it, but Illya was beginning to understand just how expressive the man's iron exterior actually was. There was a comfortable ease between the men, spiced with humor that lay close beneath the surface.

They did a very good job of concealing themselves; Illya would never have believed Bertie Wooster capable of such a vast deception if he wasn't aware it was happening. There were tiny moments here and there where, because he knew what to look for, Illya could see hints of their relationship. Jeeves was a nearly impenetrable wall of reserve and propriety but even there Illya found occasional chinks in his armor. He wondered how they had been discovered in the first place, given the care with which they hid their love for one another. Anyone who did not know about them would obviously see some fondness, but it would doubtless be dismissed as a perfectly natural manifestation of friendship grown through forty five years of close association.

"Yesterday you said you'd tell us about how you first learned about THRUSH," Napoleon said, lighting a cigarette of his own as Bertie finished a strikingly absurd tale about his attempts to steal an antique silver cream pitcher in the shape of a cow for one of his aunts when he was a young man. "Would you be willing to give us your story?"

Bertie looked over at Jeeves before he spoke. Their eyes met, holding for a moment as they communicated without words. Jeeves's glance flickered over Napoleon and Illya before offering a barely perceptible nod. Bertie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, obviously struggling for a way to begin. "Well, it's really rather more complicated than you'd think," he said. "There was this window ledge, you see--"

"Perhaps if you were to begin at the beginning, sir," Jeeves suggested softly.

"Oh, right ho," Bertie said. "I do rather have a habit of _in media res_ ing. Sorry, my dear boys." He took a breath and nodded to himself. "Some of it's just, well, rather uncomfortable stuff, you understand. Desperate times." He gazed out the window. "I was a bit stranded in Vienna shortly after the start of the war in '39, you see. I'd met this chap, Albert Göring, some time before -- he was that hideous man Hermann's brother, but entirely different from him in every way you can imagine." Illya and Napoleon looked at each other, surprised. "A kind bloke, you know," Bertie continued, "and not at all interested in all that Nazi mess. Hated the whole bunch of them and what they were doing. Saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives during the war, but everyone hates him because he's related to that evil blighter. Poor chap hasn't a penny to his name these days. I don't know for sure where he is or what's become of him, or I'd try to help the old boy out. Anyway, Jeeves and I stayed with Albert for a couple of rather dicey weeks before we could arrange passage back to England, and Hermann was there the last few days of that time. One night they had some guests over, including this _fräulein_ who had taken an unfortunate shine to me.

Well, rather like that whole mess the other day at the American Consulate, I legged it up the stairs to make myself scarce. Unfortunately, there weren't any convenient curtains to slip behind, so I ended up on a ledge outside a window, clinging to the wall like a bally ivy vine or wisteria, or perhaps a three-toed sloth, if three-toed sloths cling to walls." Bertie sighed and shook his head, a sound like a choked laugh escaping from his mouth. "I couldn't get back inside for over an hour, you see. I was stuck out in the freezing rain because Hermann ended up in the only room I could have entered through, and he was... well, he was being rather ungentlemanly with a very pretty young gal -- the same one who'd been chasing me about the place, in fact. The man was tight as a squadron of owls and she was asking him about some of the things he was in charge of. Important chap, even then, and he was drunk enough to tell her, you see."

"You speak German?" Napoleon asked, astonished.

Bertie hesitated, then shrugged. "Not speak, as such, but I do understand it. I get a bit lost trying to form a sentence. Everything's off at the back end of it, you know, and by the time I get there, I've forgotten what I was trying to say. But I knew what I was hearing, and it was the real tabasco. Hot stuff, you know. I was shivering outside the window and Jeeves was inside trying to figure out where I'd bally well gone off to and worrying himself sick about me." He looked over at Jeeves for a moment, who reached out and touched Bertie's arm in a gesture of reassurance, then back at Napoleon. "I nearly caught my death of cold that night. Anyway, eventually I got myself back inside and Jeeves bunged me into some dry clothes before I was missed.

Things weren't anything like I'd imagined, though. You see, the young filly who was getting frisky with Hermann turned out to be working for old blighty, and she was dead by morning. Albert was worried about me and we were out of Vienna by noon that next day, though he hadn't known I'd overheard anything. It was just that we were British, you know, and at that particular moment, it was a dashed dangerous thing to be, particularly in Albert's house after everything that had just happened. When I got back to London, the first thing I did was beetle over to see a chap I knew in the SIS and tell him what I'd heard." Bertie and Jeeves exchanged another significant look at that. "The old boy said I'd done well and sent me home, because I was already sick as a dog and he didn't want me to come down with pneumonia." Bertie sighed, getting another cigarette from Jeeves. "After that, well, every now and then I'd get asked to just hang about and listen to things. You know, be the old hanger-on, the chap who's there for the fun or the food and nothing else." He stared at the cigarette, letting it slowly burn down between his fingers for several minutes, obviously trying to find words.

Finally, Bertie looked up at Illya. "I've always had something of a reputation for having only about half the brain of your average chump," he said, his voice soft. Illya could hear old hurt in it. "Of course, standing next to Jeeves, here, anyone would look a bit dim." He shrugged. "When everyone thinks you're stupid, they don't pay any attention to you, of course. They don't care what you hear because they don't think you understand any of it. And who really pays attention to servants, you know? A valet might as well be invisible." There was resentment in his voice on his lover's behalf. He looked at Jeeves again, who nodded back at him. "No one knew I understood German, and they thought I barely had enough French to pass at the roulette tables, so I ended up going to parties or playing golf or sharing a spot of tea with people who thought I was nothing more than an entertaining idiot, and reporting back to SIS if I heard anything useful."

"You were a spy?" Illya said, dumbfounded, knowing that Bertie's reputation was actually the perfect sort of cover. No one would have suspected him. 'Harmless' suddenly seemed far less so and he found himself entirely reevaluating his opinion of the man. What else hadn't Waverly told them?

"I hated it," Bertie said. "I was terrified, really, but Jeeves and I, we wanted to do our bit for King and country, of course. One doesn't complain about doing one's duty when the world is burning down around one's ears. I will admit, though, that the whole stiff upper lip thingummy was a bit difficult to maintain, particularly after..." He stopped and shook his head, looking away from them, out the window again. The scandal Waverly had mentioned?

Jeeves reached out to him, resting a gentle hand on Bertie's shoulder for a moment. "Sir," he murmured.

Bertie started to look back at Jeeves but blinked and leaned toward the window, nervous and confused. "I say, chaps," he said, looking back at them. "I mean to say, we're heading for Casablanca, what?"

"That's the plan," Napoleon said.

"Well, it's just... I mean to say, isn't that rather in a northwest-ish direction from Johannesburg and all? They haven't moved it to Egypt or something when I wasn't looking, did they? African politics are so dashed confusing."

"It is still in Morocco, which remains northwest of Johannesburg," Illya said, puzzled.

Bertie pressed his nose to the window next to one splayed hand. "It's just -- doesn't that look awfully Kilimanjaro-like? That mountain we're heading toward there, I mean?" He tapped the window with two fingers, his cigarette burning between them. Everyone leaned in to look out the windows and forward of the right wing of the plane.

Off to the east, the distinctive, flat-topped volcanic peak of Kilimanjaro dominated the horizon in a shimmer of heat and cloud.

***

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, alarmed. Napoleon shot a look at the closed cockpit door. His eyes met Illya's again; they had come to the same conclusion. THRUSH was nothing if not tenacious. Turning to Bertie and Jeeves, he said, "Get down behind the seats and stay there. If shots are fired, at least that'll be some cover for you."

Jeeves was already drawing his pistol and pushing Bertie down to the floor between the back bench seats and one of the swivel seats, crouching to place himself between Bertie and the rest of the cabin. Napoleon tugged off a button from his sleeve that contained a tracking device and leaned down, slipping it into Bertie's jacket pocket as he activated it. "If anything happens, we can trace you with this."

Bertie gave him a frightened look, but nodded. "Right. Yes. Spiffing."

Napoleon and Illya both drew weapons and moved quietly to the front of the cabin. Napoleon tried the sliding door. It was locked. There was no chance of surprising whoever was in there. They'd have to shoot the lock and hope they could get the man before he managed to kill either of them. There was no doubt the pilot would be armed.

"On three," Illya said. Napoleon nodded. Fingers flashed -- one, two, three. Illya blew a hole in the lock and Napoleon reached forward and slid the door open sharply.

There was barely time to form an impression as everything went into frantic motion, the whole sequence jagged and compressed in Napoleon's mind.

The pilot, slumped back in his seat, hours dead. A shot from the co-pilot that hit Illya, spraying blood. The cold thread of Napoleon's fear as Illya staggered back. More shots from Illya and Napoleon, driving holes through the windscreen. The co-pilot flipping a switch. The plane shuddering. A muffled explosion that melted chunks of the control panel as the co-pilot continued shooting, bullets going wide of his mark as the cabin depressurized. Napoleon shooting again. The co-pilot's head exploding in a brilliant splash of blood and bone.

Back in the cabin, Jeeves had already holstered his pistol by the time the shooting began in earnest and was scrambling to pull out the parachutes. He'd learned to use one, though it had been over twenty years ago. He'd never imagined he would have to use the knowledge in this manner. Throwing a parachute into each of the agent's seats, he tugged out another -- a tandem chute, thank god. Bertie had no idea what to do and was already panicking. Trying to give him sufficient instruction in the next thirty seconds to get him to the ground unharmed via his own chute would be an impossible task. It would be difficult enough, even with the tandem parachute. Still, even the possibility of a broken limb or two was better than death.

"You can't be serious, Reg!" Bertie yelped.

"I am entirely serious," Jeeves responded, already getting into the web harness. He could feel the plane's destabilization and precipitous loss of altitude and knew there wasn't so much as a second to waste in arguing with his lover.

"What -- I mean, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane!"

Jeeves didn't stop moving. "That jolt you felt was the fuel being jettisoned, Bertram. _This is no longer a perfectly good airplane_."

Bertie let out a quiet, terrified whine, his eyes wide as eggs. Jeeves stuffed him into the secondary harness with all the practiced efficiency of the forty five years he'd spent dressing the man. There were more shots, and Jeeves shoved Bertie back against the wall. He felt a bullet hit the parachute pack, a sharp jerk on the harness and a thud against his back, but the bullet wouldn't do enough damage to impair the chute's function.

Illya, his chest burning where the bullet had laid open a long, bloody trench along his ribs, turned to check on Bertie and Jeeves. The old valet had already got both of them into the tandem parachute harnesses, much to Illya's surprise. He hadn't been entirely sure how they were going to manage getting everyone to the ground safely, but it seemed the man had that end of things in hand.

"Are you all right?" Napoleon asked, worried, one hand on Illya's chest above the bloody wound.

"Superficial," Illya responded, though his tight voice betrayed the pain he was feeling. "Our expense report for this affair is going to be horrendous."

"Parachutes," Napoleon said. Illya took two steps back into the cabin and slapped one of the packs against Napoleon's chest. Jeeves was fastening his small valise to one of the clips on his web harness as he shoved Bertie forward, toward the plane's outer door.

"When you get to the ground, stay where you are, unless your life is in immediate danger," Napoleon snapped at them. "We'll find you."

Jeeves nodded. Bertie flailed, babbling disjointed nonsense, but Jeeves turned him so that he could fasten the back of Bertie's harness to the front of his own, pulling him close and tightening the straps to secure them together. Illya and Napoleon both scrambled into harness as Jeeves leaned on the lever that started the outer doors opening. They split like a clamshell, up and down, stealing everyone's breath and staggering them with the sudden blast of air. It seemed to take an eternity for the doors to open enough to allow an escape, as Napoleon and Illya hurried to get into their chutes.

The last thing Napoleon heard from the pair was Bertie's sharp scream as Jeeves launched them out the door. He saw their canopy open a few seconds later, blooming into a perfect white jellyfish as the air expanded it.

Illya, finally geared up, nodded to him. "After you," Napoleon said, fastening the last strap on his own chute.

"See you below," Illya replied, and stepped out into the void.

***

Due to the speed of the Learjet, and the wind blowing high over the savannah, Napoleon's drop point was several hundred yards away from Illya's, and neither of them were anywhere near wherever it was that Jeeves and Bertie had ended up. From the strength of the signal on the tracker, they were probably at least three miles away, possibly as much as five. Napoleon left his chute balled up under a shrub to conceal it and made his way over to where Illya had landed. His partner was still sitting when he got there, arms wrapped around himself, not looking particularly thrilled with life.

"Illya? Are you all right?" He knelt next to his friend, running a hand through Illya's sweaty, bright blond hair.

Illya nodded. "I think the bullet may have cracked a rib," he said, his voice tight. "That rough landing did not help at all."

"Let's get a look at you." With a sigh, Illya uncurled and leaned back slightly. Napoleon unbuttoned his partner's shirt to get a better look at the long, shallow wound. It was still bleeding, and Illya's clothing was sticky with it. "We should bandage you up," he said.

"Probably a good idea," Illya agreed. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, handing it to Napoleon. "Might as well use the parachute. I suspect I should make a head covering from it as well, as it's going to be a very long, very hot walk to wherever our friends are. I am going to burn to a cinder."

Napoleon helped Illya take off his jacket, shoulder holster, and his ruined shirt and undershirt. Illya tossed the undershirt, as it was too bloody to salvage, but kept his outer shirt despite the mess, needing something to wear against the sun. There was nothing they could use to sterilize the wound, though. That would have to wait until they found some kind of water, or vestiges of civilization. "You would have to get shot out in the middle of the savannah," Napoleon grumbled, unwilling to admit that he was actually worried about infection.

"I have been shot in worse places," Illya said.

"Name one," Napoleon challenged him.

Illya snorted, a wry smile on his lips. "My ass." Napoleon laughed; he couldn't argue with that logic. "I have already tried to contact Nairobi. There is some sort of interference on the channel, very strange sounds. Nothing is getting through at all."

"Really? You sure your communicator didn't get in the way of a bullet?"

"You try it."

Napoleon pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D please." Illya was right. The interference was one of the strangest sounds he'd ever heard -- quiet but ululating wildly. "It's like something out of the _Twilight Zone_ ," he said, puzzled.

"If Rod Serling crawls out from under a bush, I would advocate shooting him."

Napoleon responded with a snort as he tucked his communicator back into his pocket. "Are you kidding? He's probably the only one who could get us out of here if that were the case."

It was the work of about fifteen minutes to get Illya properly bandaged and dressed again. Having his hands on his partner was something of a comfort, knowing he hadn't been badly injured. Movement would be painful but not difficult. They were approaching the heat of the day, though, and they had several miles to cover. Lack of water was going to be their greatest enemy, unless THRUSH was lurking just over the horizon, looking for them.

"I hope our friends are all right," Illya said, letting Napoleon help him to his feet. "We shouldn't leave them to fend for themselves in the middle of all this," he gestured at the brown, open plain around them, "for too long. Waverly would be very displeased if we misplaced them." The savannah stretched toward an endless horizon, broken only by Kilimanjaro's vast, blue silhouette off to their east. They were surrounded by tall grass, scattered shrubs, and occasional tall, spreading trees. Napoleon could see clusters of animals off in the distance and hoped there weren't any lions or other predators lurking nearby. With Illya smelling of blood... he didn't particularly want to think about the possibilities.

"We'd best get a move on," Napoleon said, looking down at Illya's crumpled and cut up parachute. It was too hot to carry anything unnecessary. They'd already trashed a Learjet. It wasn't like a couple of parachutes were going to make much of a difference in the expense report now. He poked the pack with one toe.

"Take enough for some shelter and leave the rest of it," Illya said.

Napoleon nodded. "My thoughts exactly, partner mine. But we should at least conceal it."

"I suppose you are right," Illya said, cutting off enough of a chunk for a quick pup tent, then gathering the rest into a bundle and stuffing it into the pack. He carried it a few yards and jammed it into the base of a thorn bush. "All right. Now we can go."

Consulting his tracking receiver, Napoleon pointed off to the southwest. "Thataway." The two agents set off into the shimmering heat of the day.

They had to stop several times to rest, due to the heat. Neither of them had much energy after the first hour of their journey, and there was no conversation between them at all. By the time they found their charges -- four and a half miles from where they'd landed -- it had been almost four hours. Napoleon wondered if he wasn't hallucinating when they finally did find the men.

Bertie and Jeeves were camped out near a small stream, and Bertie was lazing in a hammock that Jeeves had rigged up out of part of their parachute, with the rest of it acting as a shelter from the sun, set up within a copse of trees at the water's edge. Jeeves had made a small, three-legged stool for himself with three sturdy sticks and a chunk of the parachute cloth. A light, pleasant breeze played in the leaves around them. There was a well-maintained fire as well, and Napoleon could see a couple of small fish over the coals, spitted on sticks, cooking.

"What ho, chaps!" Bertie called out as they approached, sounding tired but remarkably cheerful for a man who was having a day that had already involved an attempted kidnapping and a dive out of a disabled airplane. Most of his suit, however, was a mess. It looked like he'd had an unfortunate argument with a thornbush at some point. Napoleon couldn't imagine Jeeves being terribly thrilled with the idea.

"May I offer you gentlemen some tea?" Jeeves asked, looking almost entirely unruffled, though Napoleon detected a few tears in his suit as well. It looked like they'd landed Bertie-side down in a thicket. Apparently, Jeeves's valise had contained some cups, a small metal teapot, and a kettle for boiling water, as well as the tea leaves themselves, because all of those items were laid out on a flat rock next to the fire.

Napoleon and Illya stared at the men, blinking in disbelief; it was the tea set that had given the whole scene its air of surreality. A moment later, Illya staggered over and collapsed, exhausted, next to Bertie's hammock, leaning back against one of the trees it was tied to. "Yes, please," he said.

Napoleon followed suit with slightly more grace, leaning against Illya in the shade, their shoulders pressed together, relieved that their charges were safe and that he and Illya could finally rest. "I could use something to drink as well. And Illya's gunshot wound needs cleaning." Since they could boil water here, they wouldn't have to worry about nasty tropical micro-organisms getting into the wound from the water in the stream.

Jeeves gave them each a cup of perfectly brewed tea and allowed them to drink before speaking. "Lord Yaxley, unfortunately, strained his knee when we landed and is currently unable to walk any distance, sir."

Illya looked up at Jeeves. "That's all right. Neither of us are in any condition to walk right now, anyway. We'll need to wait until the day starts cooling down before we make any decisions about what to do, I think."

"Will not THRUSH be looking for us, Mr Kuryakin?" Jeeves asked, one imperturbable eyebrow raised a microscopic degree or two.

Bertie sighed and said, "I'd think they would have been expecting us by now, if they went to the trouble of attempting to kidnap us like that."

"There is that," Napoleon agreed. "But we haven't got any resources at the moment. Our communicators are jammed, and both Bertie and Illya are injured. We should see to Illya's wound before we do anything else."

"I can attend to that if you wish, Mr Kuryakin," Jeeves said. "Water has already been boiled, as you can see."

Illya shrugged. "Why not? You can rest a bit, Napoleon."

Napoleon nodded. "You want a hand with any of that? With two of us working on it, it'll go faster."

Illya twisted a bit, grimacing as his rib twinged. "I could use a hand with the jacket," he admitted. Napoleon leaned away from Illya and helped pull the sweat-stained jacket from Illya's body as Jeeves brought water and a few long, clean strips of silk from the parachute to them. After a moment, they'd got the shoulder holster and then the shirt off of Illya as well; it clung to his arms and chest and he sighed with relief as it was peeled away from his body, baring his skin to the slight breeze at the stream's edge.

The makeshift silk bandages Napoleon had wrapped about his chest were cemented to the wound by Illya's dried blood, and they had to be soaked down before they could be removed, so that the wound wouldn't be torn open again. "Careful," Napoleon told Jeeves. "We think he's got a cracked rib under there."

The man's touch was surprisingly gentle as he worked, kneeling next to Illya. "I believe you may be correct, sir," he said, when Illya hissed at the careful pressure Jeeves applied over a particularly bruised spot on his chest. "I have a small bottle of aspirin in the valise if you wish to take two when we are done with this, sir."

Illya nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. Napoleon could see that the long opening in his partner's skin had started to puff up a little and redden in the last few hours. "That would be a very good idea," Illya said.

"Are you feeling feverish at all, _tovarisch_?" Napoleon asked.

"It is too hot to tell," Illya answered, shrugging. "It could be heat exhaustion." He leaned back against Napoleon as Jeeves did a thorough, efficient job of cleaning the wound. Illya's head rested on Napoleon's shoulder and Napoleon supported him with an arm around his waist.

"If you will sit up so that I may reach around you, sir," Jeeves said, once the wound was cleaned. Illya leaned forward, allowing Jeeves to wrap the silk bandages around his chest. "I trust this will be more comfortable."

"It feels better already," Illya assured him. Jeeves offered him the aspirin and some water, which Illya took gratefully. That done, Jeeves presented them with the fish that had been cooking over the coals, and both of them ate, careful not to burn their fingers. By the end of the small meal, Napoleon was feeling much more himself.

***

Illya half-drowzed for about forty five minutes, letting himself relax against his partner. He was feeling somewhat better now that he'd had a couple of aspirin and given them time to take effect. Napoleon's arm had remained around his waist as they sat, but Illya didn't want to call any attention to the fact. Napoleon might decide to move it, after all, and Illya quite liked it where it was. Bertie napped in the heat of the afternoon, shifting only occasionally in his hammock, and Jeeves quietly smoked a cigarette, sitting on his tiny stool at the edge of the stream, staring out across the wavering landscape in silence.

Just as Illya was about to nod off entirely, Jeeves stood. "I believe we will have company soon, gentlemen," he said. Illya and Napoleon both looked up. Illya couldn't see anything, so he got to his feet, followed by Napoleon, and they both squinted out into the distance. After a few minutes, Illya could make out a red blotch, moving at a crawl in the shimmering heat, surrounded by darker shapes.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, shading his eyes.

"I believe it is a native herdsman, sir. If I am not mistaken, the large, darker shapes are his cattle. Perhaps he is coming to the stream to water them?" Jeeves didn't take his eyes from the slowly-resolving figure in red.

In another ten minutes, it was obvious that Jeeves was right. The valet woke Bertie and explained the situation to him as the man and his small herd drew nearer. The African was tall, with very short hair, dressed in three traditional red cloth _shúkà_ that fluttered around him as he walked, and carrying a spear in one hand. He called out to them as he approached, his herd moving along at a moderate pace toward the water.

"Hello!" Napoleon called in response, though the man had not addressed them in English. It had not sounded Swahili, either, though that was one of the common trade languages of the continent. The man shook his head, obviously not understanding.

" _Habari za mchana_?" Illya offered -- good afternoon -- hoping that the man spoke Swahili.

The man's face lit at the words, and he picked up his pace somewhat, answering Illya in Swahili. Their conversation continued as the man and his herd approached. The herdsman, whose name was Mbiraru, was from a small village about two hour's walk northeast of their location. Mbiraru was on his way home for the night with his herd. He'd seen their parachutes descending earlier in the day, and said they could come along with him. There would be a place for them to sleep, and something to eat, and maybe the chief would be able to help them get to Nairobi. "The chief speaks English," Mbiraru said. "Maybe this will help you more."

"We are very grateful for your assistance," Illya told him. "Unfortunately, our elder," he indicated Bertie, stating his status in terms the herdsman would understand, "hurt his knee when we had to jump from the sky, and cannot walk far."

Mbiraru chuckled. "You think he might ride a donkey?" He gestured toward a small, scruffy looking donkey amid the milling herd of cattle that were now drinking from the stream.

Illya looked over at his companions. "This is Mbiraru," he said, gesturing toward the herdsman. "He's invited us to his village for the night and says that Bertie can ride his donkey if he's willing."

"That would be just topping, my dear chap," Bertie said to the herdsman, nodding enthusiastically. "The old knee won't hold most of my weight at the mo. Works about as well as a wet noodle. Please thank him, Illya, and tell him we'd be delighted." Bertie grinned at Jeeves, who began gathering the things he'd taken from his valise earlier. Napoleon moved to douse the fire.

"Our elder says yes, and thanks you," Illya said. "We shall break camp while your cattle drink."

Mbiraru eyed the hammock and shelter that Jeeves had made from the parachute. "What will you do with that?" he asked, nodding toward the cloth.

"We were probably going to leave most of it," Illya admitted.

Mbiraru's eyes brightened. "If it isn't wanted, it would still be useful. I think it could be good gift, yes? My wives, I think, would like some cloth like that, and good cord is always needed."

"He wants the parachute," Illya said.

Napoleon smiled. "It's not going to do us any good like this. I don't see any reason why not."

Illya nodded to Mbiraru. "It's yours if you would like it, Mbiraru."

Mbiraru laughed. "It has been a fortunate day for me!"

"And for us, now that you have come," Illya agreed.

By the time the cattle finished drinking, everything was packed and the cloth was folded back into the parachute pack. Jeeves helped Bertie onto the donkey's back; he had to share space with the parachute pack, but he didn't complain. "It's been years since I've ridden anything that didn't have wheels," Bertie said, thoughtful, as he balanced precariously without a saddle or tack.

Jeeves stood beside him, valise in hand. "I shall not allow you to fall, sir."

Bertie shook his head. "I rather imagine we won't be going fast enough for that to be a danger, old fruit. Why don't you put the valise up here with the pack? No reason you should have to carry the bally thing through all this heat."

Jeeves looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but nodded and added the valise to the load the donkey was carrying. Once Bertie was settled, Mbiraru called out to his cattle, poking a couple of the lead animals in the flank, and their motley company set out for the village. Jeeves walked beside the donkey and kept an ostensibly steadying hand on Bertie's injured leg; Bertie didn't object. Illya noted, instead, that Bertie's hand casually covered Jeeves's as he swayed gently with the donkey's movement.

***

The long walk through the fading afternoon was hot and dry, and Napoleon stayed close to Illya, who grew more flushed, and more tired, as the trek continued. Mbiraru kept up a moderate but steady pace, talking to Illya and to his cattle as they made their way toward the village. "You doing all right?" Napoleon asked. Illya was slowing slightly, though he hadn't said anything about it.

"I think I may have that fever you were asking about," he said. His hair had begun to stick to his skin as he sweated in the heat. Napoleon reached up and brushed a damp strand from his partner's forehead.

"Do you need to stop?"

Illya shook his head. "No. I'll certainly last until we get to the village, but I'll want some water and a couple more aspirin once we're there, if Jeeves still has some."

"If you're sure."

Illya tilted a brow at him. "When did you become a mother hen?"

"About the time we got dumped in the middle of the Serengeti."

"This is not the Serengeti," Illya said. "That's about three hundred miles west of us."

"Technicalities." He was worried about the man. Illya often seemed nearly indestructible, but neither of them were at their best at the moment, and that long, reddening gash in Illya's chest bothered Napoleon more than he really wanted to admit. He was just glad that Bertie and Jeeves seemed fairly self-sufficient, and that anything resembling THRUSH would have to cross a huge open space unseen in order to get to them. They were relatively safe, at least for the moment, and Mbiraru seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be -- a herdsman just going about his daily routine.

Waking that morning to find himself aroused and wrapped around his partner had been disconcerting. Much more pleasant than he'd expected, but still disconcerting. Illya hadn't seemed particularly bothered by it, though the moment had been somewhat awkward. The past couple of days, since Waverly's comments in the New York office, had left Napoleon with entirely too much time to think about things, his partner at the top of that list. He'd been trying to distract himself with the women around him, but it hadn't been working nearly as well as it had in the past.

Watching Bertie and Jeeves had been... intriguing, really. Knowing what he knew about them, he found himself picking out moments between them when well-hidden affections surfaced briefly, and comparing them to his own actions toward his partner. Admitting that he wanted Illya was slightly unnerving. It involved changing something immense in the way he saw himself; it had been a lot easier to ignore that sort of desire than to actually contemplate it or act on it. It wasn't that Napoleon was averse to risk -- his entire life was one grand gamble, after all, and field agents tended to have a limited lifespan. No, Napoleon was averse to the specific risk of doing something that might not only get him fired, but lose him one of the best friends he'd ever known, and the best partner he could ever have asked for.

Napoleon had been married before. He knew how these things worked with women. If there was any chance at all of having some sort of partnership with Illya outside of work, he knew it would look nothing like that. It couldn't. Illya wouldn't stand for it, and Napoleon didn't want it to go that way either. What it _would_ look like, he had no idea. He didn't have any clue how two men negotiated that sort of territory.

He cared about Illya. That much he knew. He was attracted to the man, though he'd only recently been able to admit it openly to himself. Illya didn't seem to have any attachments to women, but he didn't really have attachments to anyone at all that Napoleon was aware of. He wasn't sure if that signified anything beyond 'too busy to deal with decadent westerners in relationships' as far as Illya was concerned, or if Illya was just much, much pickier than Napoleon had ever been. There were moments when he thought he might love Illya, but love was a slippery emotion, and he wasn't sure how that happened between two men. The only thing Napoleon really knew was that he wanted something more from Illya than a quick fuck, forgotten the next morning. If he were going to cross that line -- provided he could bring himself to it, and Illya was even willing -- it would have to be worth the risks for both of them.

It seemed obvious to Napoleon that what Bertie and Jeeves had went far beyond mere convenience or a purely physical interest. They'd been together for more than a decade longer than Napoleon had even been alive and that had to take some kind of dedication. Forty five years was a hell of a long time by anybody's standards, so they must have figured it all out at some point. They must love each other, because Napoleon couldn't understand how it would work otherwise. Asking, though -- how the hell did a guy ask about something like that, when the relationship hadn't even been mentioned aloud by either of them?

He watched them now: Jeeves, tall and silent, a study in black, white, and grey, with his hand resting on Bertie's leg; Bertie leaning slightly in Jeeves's direction, his hand covering his lover's as he swayed with the donkey's movements. Anyone looking at them could see they were friends, despite the fact that Bertie was Jeeves's employer. That had to have been awkward at first, Napoleon thought. Bertie didn't seem like the type to push himself where he wasn't wanted, but Jeeves didn't seem the type to cross class boundaries easily, either. He was more formal than anyone Napoleon had ever met, remaining rigidly in his role of valet despite everything that had been happening around them.

He reminded Napoleon of Illya, similarly unapproachable. They could both be cold and distant, though their styles were very different. Illya had a reputation as UNCLE's ice prince, but Jeeves was even more closed than the Russian; the man barely had facial expressions at all. Illya was perfectly capable of smiling, of laughter, of admitting he was human. Napoleon wasn't certain Jeeves was, but he didn't actually know the man as Bertie did. There had to be something beneath that unflappable exterior if a man like Bertie had fallen in love with him; Bertie was entirely too emotional to stay with someone who couldn't respond at all. Then again, so was Napoleon. The response, drawing an emotion or physical pleasure out of someone, was what Napoleon lived for in a relationship. He wondered idly what he might be able to draw out of Illya, given the chance. He had to suppress a shiver at the thought.

Illya wobbled slightly. Napoleon reached out to him, taking his arm. Illya didn't say anything, but he didn't pull away, either. Napoleon left his hand where it was, enjoying the contact, and the excuse for it, despite his concern. It was all he had.

***

The village was larger than he'd expected -- fifteen, maybe twenty buildings made of mud and brush and wood. Napoleon could see a Land Rover parked near one of the larger buildings. The hum of a generator sounded somewhere in the cluster of buildings. Part of the settlement was surrounded by a brush fence, which served as a corral for not just cattle, but goats and donkeys as well. Chickens ran here and there, loose among the dusty children and the cattle.

There were shouted greetings as Mbiraru led them into the settlement. Napoleon was only surprised that they weren't actually being openly stared at. In a place like this, he wouldn't have been surprised if they were the only white people some of these villagers had ever seen.

"He is taking us to see the chief first," Illya said, weary and looking rougher by the minute. Mbiraru herded his cattle into the corral and Jeeves helped Bertie off the donkey, supporting part of the man's weight with one arm as he retrieved the valise. The rest had apparently done Bertie some good; his limp wasn't nearly as pronounced as Napoleon had expected. It looked uncomfortable rather than agonizing, and Bertie leaned easily on Jeeves's arm. Jeeves continued to be an imperturbable granite presence. Napoleon wondered if the man actually had sweat glands.

It was close to twenty minutes before they were finally ushered into one of the larger structures, presumably the chief's home. It seemed like half the village had already gathered there. They were offered seats, and Napoleon was grateful as he sank onto one of the small cushions on a colorful mat on the hard mud floor. Illya sat next to him, leaning against him with his eyes half closed in the dim cool of the building. Napoleon let one arm slip around his partner. It was just for a little support, he told himself. Wouldn't want Illya to keel over right there, after all.

The chief entered a few minutes later, followed by several women who were likely either his wives or his sisters, possibly a collection of both. Like Mbiraru, he was tall, though his short shaved hair was almost entirely white; he was dressed in a much flashier version of the traditional outfit the herdsman wore, his body adorned with a great deal of gold and beaded jewelry. His wrinkled face sported a neatly trimmed white beard. Conversation swirled around them in a language that Napoleon didn't understand. Illya didn't seem to be following it either, so Napoleon assumed it wasn't Swahili. Bertie, however, was leaning forward with the strangest look on his face. When the chief finally sat and faced them, Bertie's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He looked remarkably like a beached haddock.

"Rugger?"

Everyone turned to stare at Bertie. The chief stood, looking back at Bertie with an equally startled expression of astonishment. "Bertie?" the chief asked, thoroughly confused. "Bertie Wooster?"

"I say! It is! Rugger Mkwan'hembo! Good Lord! So you're the chief here?"

Even Jeeves managed to look floored at this development. "Sir?" he asked, his eyebrows approaching his hairline.

"This is Thomas Mkwan'hembo, Jeeves! We were up at Oxford together!" Bertie was grinning, his face a broad, delighted expanse of white teeth and sparkling eyes.

"Bertie, old man, I thought you hated to travel?" The chief's English was fairly heavily accented, but perfectly proper. He advanced on them as Bertie stood, and wrapped Bertie in a warm embrace before holding him at arms' length to give him a thorough examination. "What are you doing here? If you'd told me you were coming, I'd have arranged for a feast, you old miscreant." He turned to one of the men standing beside him and fired off a rapid series of instructions that set half the room scurrying into action.

"Well, I don't actually care for traveling all that much, really, but I was in Johannesburg because Claude's grandson was getting married. You remember Claude and Eustace, don't you? Started the year we were released into the wild."

Chief Mkwan'hembo nodded. "Your cousins, the identical twins. Beastly young things, weren't they?" He laughed.

"Right ho, the very same blighters. I was on my way to New York from there when my plane rather dropped out of the sky, but -- oh, I say, where are my manners?" Bertie gestured to Napoleon and Illya. "These chaps are Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. They were taking me back to New York when we were rather rudely interrupted." He gave a slight incline of his head toward Jeeves. "And this is my man, Jeeves." Bertie's head tilted. "I'm afraid I've been Lord Yaxley since the '30s when old Uncle George popped it, but we really needn't stand on ceremony there, old thing."

"Oxford?" Illya mumbled to Napoleon in shocked disbelief. "They were at Oxford together?"

"This can't possibly get any weirder," Napoleon said.

"Don't bet on it," Illya told him. "Rod Serling is probably lurking somewhere near."

"I'm beginning to think you're right."

Illya shook his head. "Either that, or we are on _Candid Camera_." He looked around the room suspiciously.

"Illya was hurt when we had to jump out of the plane, Rugger," Bertie continued, "so if you've got a doctor here, I'd really appreciate having the young man seen to."

"Oh, my, of course," the chief said, turning his head to speak rapidly to one of the younger men in his entourage who hadn't already dashed out of the room, and gesturing toward the door. A few moments later he turned back to Bertie. "Don't worry, my friend, we shall have Doctor Billingsley here shortly."

"Doctor Billingsley?" Napoleon asked.

"She is from England," Chief Mkwan'hembo said. "She runs the clinic here, and for several of the other villages in the area."

"We're terribly grateful," Bertie said. "Poor chap got himself shot. Jeeves patched him up as well as might be with bits from the parachute, but no doubt he needs more than just an aspirin."

"Shot?" the chief asked, surprised.

"We were hijacked," Bertie said. "Dreadful business."

"Now, there is a tale I should be interested in hearing," the chief said, gesturing for Bertie to seat himself again. "But that can wait until after dinner. I have started preparations, though I'm afraid it will be quite simple, as I was not expecting guests. I do apologize, old thing." Bertie, smiling, eased himself down onto the cushion again with Jeeves's aid. "Are you all right? I could get you a chair."

"Twisted my knee," Bertie said. "I'll be fine, Rugger, really. Jeeves can help me when I need it."

The chief nodded again. "Right. But we can have Doctor Billingsley take a look at you, as well, when she examines your companion here."

"All right, then," Bertie agreed. "What have you been doing with yourself, old fruit?"

Chief Mkwan'hembo seated himself again, leaning back in his chair, and smiled at his old friend. "Before independence, I was a king for a while," he said. "Now, all the kings in Tanzania are just chiefs. Politics." He shrugged. "One of my sons is a member of parliament down in Dar Es Salaam now, though, and two of my grandsons are up at Oxford. One of them is with the Rugby Blues," he said with pride.

"Jolly good," Bertie said, genuinely enthusiastic about the idea. "You always did love your time playing."

"I did indeed. But here and now, we're using the money from our coffee and banana plantations to start schools in the villages, and to build a clinic and dig wells. Things have improved in the last fifteen years or so. Would you like a tour of one of the coffee plantations tomorrow, Bertie? They're up on Kilimanjaro. It's all quite beautiful."

Bertie shook his head. "It's just the sort of thing Jeeves would adore," he said, his eyes sliding to the man for a moment, "but I'm afraid I've had my fill of the African landscape for the mo. No offense meant, old chum, but I'm due in New York on a rather pressing engagement, and I haven't the first idea how we're supposed to get there now. We were supposed to be in Casablanca tonight, and we stopped for an unexpected safari instead. I'm going to be terribly late as it is."

Chief Mkwan'hembo sighed, looking disappointed. "I do understand. Tomorrow I'll have one of my grandsons drive you up to Nairobi in the Land Rover. The roads are awful and it will take about a day and a half from here, but it'll be much faster than anything else. There's a large airport there and I'm sure you can get a flight."

Napoleon was sure there would have been a longer conversation, but the doctor arrived at that point. She was a pretty little thing, freckled, with red hair and green eyes, dressed in khakis and still pale despite the African sun. "Someone's hurt, Chief?" she asked, entering the room and looking around for the injured party.

"Lord Yaxley here has twisted his knee, and one of his companions has a gunshot wound of some sort," Chief Mkwan'hembo said. "Bertie, this is Doctor Julia Billingsley."

Bertie rose once again, a little unsteadily due to his knee, but Jeeves's hand on his elbow balanced him. "Pleased to meet you, my dear." He offered her a hand, which she shook, eyeing him speculatively. The word 'predatory' came to Napoleon's mind, though the woman had to be at least thirty five years younger than Bertie.

"Lord Yaxley," she said.

"I'm fine, doctor. If you could see to my friend Illya, here?"

She gave Illya a quick glance, taking in his flush and the sweat on his face. "I think this would best be done over at the clinic," she said.

"Of course, of course," the chief said. "Please, do take care of them." He spoke to Bertie. "I shall see you at dinner, Bertie, if not before. We'll eat just after dark, back here. Please come back when you're done at the clinic. Perhaps we can do something about your somewhat disheveled state, what?"

"Right ho, Rugger. Thanks awfully. You're terribly kind."

"Now, Bertie," the chief said, chiding, "we were at school together. One doesn't desert an old school chum in trouble."

"Regardless, old fruit, it's very much appreciated." Bertie smiled as Napoleon helped Illya to his feet.

***

Illya wasn't exactly feeling at the top of his game; feverish, exhausted, and probably dehydrated as well, he did his best not to wobble as Napoleon offered him some support with one arm during their walk to the clinic.

"I think the doctor has her eye on Bertie," Napoleon said, quiet enough that no one else could hear him. The doctor in question was quite solicitously holding Bertie's elbow on one side as Jeeves hovered and held his elbow in a subtly possessive manner on the other. Bertie looked remarkably uncomfortable with this development.

"Jealous?" Illya asked. The expression on Napoleon's face told him he'd scored a direct hit.

"He's at least twice her age." Napoleon shook his head. "A complete waste of a lovely girl. What on earth does she see in him?"

"He is a good looking and exceedingly wealthy man who has been holding up remarkably well under our current circumstances. May I remind you how women respond to such things?" Napoleon's face only soured further. "I know how you hate it when I'm right," Illya said, not quite suppressing a snicker.

"You really think he's good looking?" Napoleon asked, disbelief, or possibly bemused curiosity, in his voice.

Illya tilted a wry smile at his partner. "You do not?" He found himself hoping he looked half that good when he was in his mid-sixties. If he made it that far, of course. Death was an occupational hazard, after all. "What about the valet?" he teased.

"If looks could kill, I think we'd be scraping Julia's remains off of Bertie's arm," Napoleon answered. Jeeves did look rather annoyed, under his carefully cultivated stone mask. Bertie shot the man a helpless glance and Jeeves returned a microscopic nod, whereupon Bertie relaxed slightly.

Julia gestured toward one of the buildings as they approached. The sound of the generator was louder here. "This is the clinic," she said. Letting go of Bertie's elbow, she opened the door and led them inside. It was rather cleaner than Illya had expected for such a primitive location, and seemed reasonably well equipped. She could probably manage emergency surgery here before having to evacuate to a city, were it absolutely necessary.

"Now then," she continued, patting the examination table, "please have a seat here, Mr Kuryakin, and let me have a look at you." She gestured to a chair against the wall. "Lord Yaxley, if you'll have a seat, I'll examine you shortly."

"Right ho, my dear," Bertie said, easing himself into the chair with a small, relieved sigh. Jeeves stood, silent and solemn, close by his side.

Illya planted himself on the table, with Napoleon doing his own share of hovering nearby. He tugged off his jacket, holster, and shirt as Julia snapped on some gloves, got out her stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, and a thermometer. She shook the mercury down and tucked the little glass tube under his tongue, then proceeded to take his vitals as she waited for the thermometer to register. Despite her obvious interest in Bertie, she was remarkably professional as she examined Illya.

"Well, you definitely have a fever," she said when she removed the thermometer. "I'll need to look at the wound site. What happened? The chief said you were shot?"

"Our plane was hijacked. The hijacker was armed," Illya said, raising his arms as Julia removed the makeshift bandages Jeeves had applied earlier that afternoon. "I was shot when my partner and I attempted to regain control of the plane. I believe a rib was cracked at that time as well."

"Were there other passengers?" Julia asked, alarmed. "Do we need to send a rescue party?"

Illya shook his head. "No."

"It was a private jet," Napoleon added, reassuring her. "We were the only passengers. The hijacker killed the pilot before we realized we were off course. The hijacker is dead."

Julia paused, looking over her shoulder at Bertie in astonishment. "And you all managed to walk away from the crash?"

"We had parachutes," Illya said. "That's what the bandage here is made of." He hissed as it tugged at the edges of the raw wound. Dried blood had plastered it to him again.

Her attention back on Illya's wound, she removed the rest of the bandaging more carefully. It had reddened considerably since Jeeves had wrapped it. "Well," she said, looking at the long gash that creased Illya's chest, "it's definitely getting infected. I'm going to have to stitch you up; it's a sizeable wound here. This may be somewhat painful."

"Charming," Illya muttered. Anytime a doctor uttered the phrase 'somewhat painful,' the procedure was guaranteed to be highly unpleasant. While he was perfectly capable of resisting a certain amount of torture, he really preferred to avoid pain when possible. Still, infections were never good news. "Do you have penicillin?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I've a little, but what I do have is for a poor little girl with a horrid ear infection. I've only enough left to treat her. She's likely to be deaf in that ear if it's not dealt with promptly. The next medical shipment won't be for another two weeks."

"Of course," Illya said. "We should be in Nairobi by tomorrow night. I can wait."

That earned him a smile as she worked, her hands sure and steady. "I'm so glad you understand. This isn't severe enough to worry just yet, and once I've got the wound cleaned up, I'll be able to put some antiseptic on it. That should help for the moment. I have some aspirin for the fever, and some stronger some pain medication if you'd like, given the cracked rib. I doubt the aspirin will help that very much."

"Aspirin, yes," Illya agreed, wincing as Julia poked and prodded in a rather painful manner. "If the stronger medication will diminish my ability to act, however, I will have to decline."

She glowered. "The only thing you have to do this evening, Mr Kuryakin, is have dinner with the chief and sleep. I don't see what the problem is."

Napoleon nodded. "She's right, Illya. I doubt that we're going to see any problems tonight."

"Famous last words, Napoleon?" Illya tilted an eyebrow at him.

"I believe Mr Solo is correct, sir," Jeeves said. "I would be more wary of trouble on the road tomorrow."

Illya glared at all of them. "All right," he grumbled. He turned his attention to Napoleon, tapping his chest with one finger. "But if anything happens, you are explaining it to the Old Man."

Napoleon chuckled. He patted Illya's shoulder but didn't withdraw his hand afterwards. It was, Illya decided, comfortable there. "I can live with that," Napoleon answered.

When Julia applied the antiseptic and anesthetic, Illya yelped and lurched back away from the cold burn of the gel as Napoleon's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Oh, don't be such a baby," she said, a small smile touching her lips. "This will only take a moment." She smeared him with another swab covered with the vile substance, gave it a moment to numb the skin, then quickly stitched up the lengthy gash and applied a proper bandage to the wound. Once it was secured, she removed her gloves and handed Illya three pills. "Do take these, and rest tonight. I'll change your bandage tomorrow morning and give you more aspirin before you leave, if the fever hasn't abated."

"Thank you," Illya said, shooting another sidelong glower at his partner. He took the doctor's offered glass of water and swallowed the pills, drinking all she'd given him. "May I have another glass?" he asked.

"As much as you like," she replied. "It will help the dehydration."

A few minutes later, Bertie was up on the examination table, looking vaguely embarrassed at having to remove his trousers in the presence of a lady. "I _am_ a doctor, Lord Yaxley," she reminded him. "I've certainly seen naked knees before." Bertie's blush deepened.

"What's this?" Julia asked, touching the bandage on Bertie's thigh.

"Oh," Bertie said, winching at the touch. "That's where I got shot yesterday. Bit of a tiff with the same chaps who hijacked my plane. A doctor's stitched it up already."

The doctor's eyes widened, her mouth open in a tiny 'o' of astonishment. "I... I see." Illya could see the gears churning in the woman's head, though her fingers lingered slightly as she worked. Apparently two attempts on the man's life in two days barely fazed the woman. Illya could almost feel Jeeves's subtle death-glare send the room temperature plummeting. He cleared his throat -- a cough that fell into the room like a lead battleship, despite its being a soft, gentle sound.

"I believe, doctor, that the hijacking will not be the last attempt on Lord Yaxley's life before we reach New York."

Bertie looked vaguely alarmed for a moment, then obviously caught up with where Jeeves was leading. "Sadly, I fear Jeeves is correct."

"Really?" Julia's green eyes widened further.

"I'm afraid it is true," Illya said. "Napoleon and I are Lord Yaxley's bodyguards."

Napoleon nodded, attempting to hide a grin. "Absolute truth, scout's honor." He raised three fingers to her.

She stared at them for a moment, then looked at Jeeves. "Are... are you his bodyguard too?"

Jeeves didn't seem quite so arctic now, but his face was still solemn. "I am his valet, doctor. Bodyguard is but one of my many duties."

"And you've... have you had to protect him a lot over the years?" Her voice betrayed a slight tremor.

"Oh, constantly," Bertie said, warming to the ruse. "Life is never dull, you know. Constant danger, always alert, never a spare mo. for a bit of rest. Flinging the old Wooster corpus out of an airplane is an everyday sitch, really. This makes, what, four continents, Jeeves?"

"Indeed, sir." He looked at Bertie, his face softening slightly with the barest hint of a conspiratorial smile, then turned his attention back to the doctor. "I have been fending off attempts on Lord Yaxley for forty five years, doctor," Jeeves said. Conniving women, mostly, Illya surmised, extremely amused by the whole thing.

Doctor Billingsley made a small, distressed squeak. The rest of the examination was over quickly, and Julia wrapped Bertie's knee with an elastic bandage, her touch now completely professional and not in the least interested. "I'd suggest using a cane for the next few days until you're feeling better, Lord Yaxley," she said. "Use the bandage for support whenever you're going to be putting weight on your leg. You can remove it at night. You don't want to restrict the circulation too much, but do put some support under your knee while you sleep. It should help a bit with the discomfort and keeping it mobile."

Bertie grinned at her. A smile like that could be a devastating weapon, Illya thought. Not unlike Napoleon's. "Thank you ever so much, my dear," Bertie said. "I'm quite grateful for your help." He sounded entirely sincere. Illya supposed he probably was. Jeeves, on the other hand, was a bit of a conundrum. Obviously the man had no qualms about lying if he felt it necessary. His only priority seemed to be Bertie's and his own wellbeing. Jeeves said so little that there was not much to judge him by beyond what Illya had read in his file, though Illya could appreciate what he'd seen so far. He could not say he in any way understood the man.

By the time Bertie had trousers on once again, Illya was feeling a bit logy from the pain medication. "We should return to the chief's home," he suggested.

"Be it ever so humble," Napoleon said, his eyes more on Illya than Julia. Illya found it surprising, but realized that he enjoyed the thought.

***

Beazel disaster at least temporarily averted, Bertie was more or less content with life for the mo. His knee was a bit out of sorts, his thigh ached, and he really felt like a stiff brandy and s. minus most of the s. was well due him, but he was better than one might expect for being flung out of an airplane from an obscene height and deposited in a shrubbery like an errant sponge or soiled handkerchief. Limping along hanging onto Jeeves's arm wasn't exactly a chore, after all. Good excuses to hold his man in public were entirely too hard to come by if one wished to avoid violence or a good long stretch in chokey. He suspected he'd be fine in a day or two, though he wasn't as young as he used to be. No one ever was, if one thought about it. That age thing only running in one direction wheeze was quite inconvenient.

He truly hadn't been expecting to run into Rugger -- he'd not seen the man in nearly fifty years, after all. They'd written a few times, but it was all terribly casual and he'd never expected to actually have reason to visit the man out in the middle of Africa. Not that Bertie had ever even really known where Tanganyika -- or was it Tanzania now? he wasn't entirely certain -- was in relation to anything else in Africa. Mud huts had never been Bertie's preferred choice of abode, despite that Jeeves had asked any number of times for an opportunity to go on safari when they visited with Claude and Eustace in South Africa. Well, it looked like Jeeves was finally getting his bally safari, approval or no. Bertie, however, was not a man to question the dental work of an unexpected equine. Rugger was here, and he'd offered to help, so Bertie would take the help and be dashed grateful that it had been bunged his way.

Jeeves had always maintained that Bertie was not a master of the Unusual Situation. He'd at least got somewhat better at them over the years, what with meeting them so frequently. He was no Jeeves himself, of course: no one could match that paragon for fish-fueled brilliance or general preparedness in times of crisis. But he had at least learned to hold his tongue and not panic without a very good reason. One's airplane being about to make an intimate acquaintance with the bush below seemed more than sufficient. Even Jeeves would have to agree with that! Utterly hair-raising. He had to admit he still wasn't quite himself after that whole parachuting thingummy. Ground rushing up at you, dangling in midair from entirely-too-thin strings, and particularly that prickly thud at the bottom, had all added up to a truly unpleasant experience.

Through it all, Bertie was a bit worried about young Illya, too. The poor chap didn't like to complain, obviously, but he was definitely a tad under the weather. One might say he was being rained upon, rather. Washed by a typhoon or a tsunami, perhaps. One of those exceedingly wet T-things. Bullets had always made Bertie extremely uneasy, and the fact that Illya had quite nearly been killed while trying to protect him left him shaken. He'd met a few of the little lead blighters in his time, and had really hoped to spend the rest of his life far from anywhere one might make an appearance. Although he knew better than to believe his own optimism, he hoped that Jeeves was wrong, and that they wouldn't meet any further misfortunes on their way to New York. More than that, he fervently wished that no one else would get hurt. It was good that Napoleon kept such a close watch on Illya, though. They seemed to take fairly good care of one another. Of course, when one was a spy, it was hard to trust anyone, so the fact that they were obviously such good friends was quite heartening.

The limp back to Rugger's place was short, and he was greeted by his old school chum when he arrived. Illya and Napoleon were offered a room in which to rest the troubled brow, and they took the opportunity for a little quiet in the dark and cool. Bertie and Jeeves would apparently be sharing it that night as well, what with space indoors being at something of a premium. He'd been a little disturbed by the whole thing last night, but it hadn't turned out as awkwardly as he'd feared. He'd still been able to snug up with Jeeves, after all.

"I say, Rugger," Bertie ventured, once he was sitting with the man and select bits of his extended family clustered round. "I don't suppose you've a spare suit lying about that I might borrow? I mean to say, this one," he plucked at his somewhat bedraggled and disintegrating linen jacket, "has had rather a bad day. I can't say as I'm keen on showing up like this for dinner, and you did mention you might be able to help me out." He sighed. "All Jeeves has left for me in the bag are my pyjamas, and that would be right out."

Rugger nodded. "Not, perhaps, what you'd wear at home in London, but I do have quite suitable clothing that you may take with you. You should be able to get something more appropriate for New York once you have arrived in Nairobi."

Jeeves raised an eyebrow a few arch degrees but said nothing. "It's all right, old thing," Bertie said to him. "I'm sure it'll be just spiffing." The mention of London had been painful, but Bertie couldn't say anything about it. It wouldn't do to call attention to the fact that he'd been living in exile for nearly thirty years. One doesn't care to explain such things in places where the reason for the entire s. t. in question was likely to be very ill-received.

"As you say, sir," Jeeves intoned, in that 'I shall hold you responsible if this is a disaster' sort of way he had about him. The man was being an absolute fretful porpentine about it. Probably thought Rugger would tog him out in those red thingummies everyone here was wearing. Those would definitely be more than enough to make Jeeves blanch. The poor chap might actually expire, and Bertie couldn't have that. While Bertie still often considered his man a sartorial dinosaur, this was one occasion where Bertie rather tended to agree with his soupiness. He didn't think he'd look terribly dashing in red sheets, no matter how much he liked the color.

"Come along, Bertie," Rugger said, leading him and Jeeves into another room, obviously Rugger's own. The room had a large, raised bed platform covered with furs and blankets, wrapped in a clean, white mosquito net. There were a few other bits of furniture as well, though the bed was the largest feature. From a brilliantly painted chest of drawers, he pulled a few items. "This is a _kanzu_." He shook out a long, white, caftan-ish thingummy with a dashing tassel at the back of the collar. "A jacket for you, too," he offered, taking a lightweight black blazer from a likewise painted wardrobe. "And a _kofia_."

Jeeves looked quite displeased with the whole procedure, but Bertie gave him a look that said 'it's this or the pyjamas, old thing,' which caused the soupiness in his expression to subside slightly. Now, the _kofia_ looked truly spiffing. A small, stiff, brimless hat, rather like a slightly-too-short fez, it was a bright red and covered with cheerful gold embroidery in lovely, eye-catching geometric patterns, and Bertie couldn't help smiling to see the thing. He thought it would make a thoroughly delightful topper, and he said so as he shucked the outer husk and slipped himself into the _kanzu_. "This is a thoroughly delightful topper, Rugger, old man." He poked his head out of the _kanzu_ 's collar, mussing his hair a bit, and he let the garment flow down around him, cool and light in the evening heat. Jeeves held the jacket for him as he slipped his arms into it, then Bertie ran his fingers through his hair to discipline the old curls slightly and popped the _kofia_ onto his head.

"You look splendid, Bertie!" Rugger grinned at him. "Quite a proper Tanzanian!" He took a mirror from amid an impressive pile of gold jewelry and whatnot on the top of his dresser and handed it to Bertie, who admired himself despite the rather arctic look the whole _ensemble_ was getting from Jeeves.

"It's much cooler than my suit," Bertie said, handing the mirror back to Rugger and moving about a little to get a feel for the air flow under the cloth. "Absolutely spiffing!" He was quite certain that the poor hat wouldn't survive ten minutes once they got to Nairobi and Bertie was properly clothed again, but he was going to enjoy every moment of it he'd be allowed. "Thanks ever so. It's very kind of you to help out an old chum."

When they went back out into the main room, there were quite a few delighted exclamations from the assembled. Bertie hadn't actually been cooed over by a room full of people in a couple of decades, so he decided he'd enjoy it while it lasted. He'd been quite a dashing young fashion plate once, and it didn't hurt a man to relive his sartorial heyday once in a while. Opportunities were getting rather rarer, after all. Jeeves hovered disapprovingly in the background, a valet distinctly lacking in gruntle.

"Dinner will be very soon," Rugger said, after consulting with one of the women in the crowd. "We shall finish preparing things in here and then we can begin. Another half-hour, perhaps. You may wait in your room if you wish to rest. I know you have had a most difficult day."

"A bit of a lie down would be just the thing," Bertie admitted. That hot, slow ride across the open savannah had been wearing, and he knew Jeeves was tired, even if the man would never admit it. He was looking a bit wilted in the heat and there was a shimmer of gratitude in his eyes at the offer. What Bertie really wanted was to take the man in his arms and just hold him for a while, until both of them felt better. It had been days -- weeks if one counted the visit with Claude and Eustace -- since they'd had any time alone when they could actually relax and simply be themselves without having to worry about being ambushed or found out.

The room they'd been offered was mostly taken up by a raised platform bed much like the one in Rugger's room. Illya was napping on the platform, curled into himself and tucked over against the wall; Napoleon lay next to him, between Illya and the door, head on his hands, staring up into the netting. Illya was wearing Napoleon's undervest, as his shirt had been quite ruined by the blood, and it was the only thing he had to wear under his jacket for the mo. It was a touch large on him and made him look rather smaller than he had already seemed. Illya's head rested on Napoleon's chest, one hand under his cheek. "We're all sleeping here in the same bed?" Bertie asked, confused.

"So it would appear," Napoleon answered, speaking softly so as not to wake Illya. "Love the outfit, by the way."

"I say." Bertie blinked.

"The hat especially," Napoleon added, smiling.

"It is rather dashing, isn't it?" Bertie asked, adjusting it to a slightly jauntier angle. It was nice to know he wasn't the only one who thought so, but it really didn't address the bedding options.

"This is most improper, sir," Jeeves rumbled, like unto a bear wishing to hibernate who had just found its lair had been inhabited by an unwelcome puma.

"Well, I don't see as we have much of a choice, old thing," Bertie said, looking over at his man. "I suspect we're getting someone else's room as it is. Probably several someones, seeing the size of Rugger's family."

Jeeves deflated slightly. "That is very likely true, sir."

"It's fairly large," Napoleon said. They'd actually have slightly more room to themselves than they had in the double bed at the safehouse in Johannesburg, though it didn't look quite so comfortable. "The mosquito netting is going to be necessary, I'm sure. Malaria's rife in these parts."

"Oh, dear," Bertie said. "I shouldn't like to come down with that." He examined the place again, knowing that what was here was all they had to work with. He'd been hoping for slightly more privacy, really, but one made do with what one had. Bertie took off his jacket and hat and set them on the chest that stood beside the bed. He sighed and sat down on the side of the bed opposite from Napoleon and Illya. "All right, Jeeves. If you want to get a bit of a kip before we eat, you'd best go to it." Jeeves hesitated as Bertie lay back, plumping up a blanket to use as a pillow. The poor chap looked utterly torn, but Bertie moved in a little further toward Napoleon and patted the empty space next to him. "It's all right, old thing," Bertie assured him. "We don't have to tell anyone."

At that, all the stuffing went out of him and he sat on the edge of the platform, looking remarkably nervous. A moment later he lay down next to Bertie, taking care to stay at the edge of the bed. "I shall be relieved when we are finally home in New York," Jeeves murmured, subdued. Bertie thought he detected a distinct note of wistful longing in the statement, like a parched plant wishing for a touch of drizzle.

Bertie reached over and patted his hand, covering it after a moment. "Well, old fruit, you always did want to go on safari. I suspect this is as close as we're likely to get. I'm sorry it wasn't better planned."

"This was not what I had envisioned," Jeeves admitted, with perhaps a touch of sorrowful asperity to his voice. Bertie suspected a pout in progress.

Bertie turned his face toward Jeeves and smiled. "Perhaps we'll see some lions tomorrow, what?"

"I am only glad we saw none today." Jeeves looked back at Bertie. "I understand, however, that the hippopotamus is far more dangerous and aggressive."

"Really?" Bertie asked. "I'd think they were too big and blobby to be very fast."

"Trust me," Napoleon said, one hand moving to rest on Illya's shoulder, "you don't want to be anywhere near one. They're one of the most dangerous animals on the continent." He sounded like he spoke from experience, and Bertie stared at him for a moment before turning his attention back to Jeeves.

"Go ahead and close the old e.'s, Jeeves," Bertie told him. "You've not had nearly enough sleep recently, and today was dashed awful, as days meant to be spent in an airplane go."

Jeeves nodded, his hand surreptitiously turning in Bertie's, concealed between them, so that their fingers could twine together. "Thank you, sir." Bertie turned to lie on his side, giving their hand-holding slightly more cover with his body. Jeeves finally relaxed, his eyes closing, and Bertie's eyes closed as well.

***

As Napoleon expected, dinner was a noisy, crowded affair, with Chief Mkwan'hembo's entire extended family attending. Bertie was given a place next to his old college friend, while Napoleon, Illya, and Jeeves sat further away. Everyone ate with their hands out of large pots. Most of the food consisted of vegetables and starches, but there were a couple of chicken dishes as well. Tasty and filling, Napoleon wasn't about to complain. He'd had nothing since the small grilled fish after they'd bailed from the plane.

Illya, still a bit groggy from the pain medication, sat pressed up next to him, watching the crowd with as much attention as he could muster. "It's all right to relax," Napoleon told him, rubbing Illya's back with his left hand. "I haven't seen any signs that we're at any risk."

"There was no sign we were being hijacked until Bertie noticed we were off course," Illya responded, grabbing another handful of a plantain stew. Even drowzy, the man could still eat twice his weight in anything set before him.

Bertie and the chief talked for a while about Bertie's travels, and his visit to his cousins in South Africa. Napoleon listened, more interested than he'd expected. Bertie was actually a masterful storyteller, and the people in attendance who understood English were kept laughing by his accounts of his various misadventures.

"So you are not married?" Chief Mkwan'hembo asked, as Bertie finished a convoluted tale about the woes of one of his friends in San Francisco, and how Jeeves had extricated the man from his troubles. Bertie stiffened slightly, with an 'oh god not again' expression on his face.

"Well, that is to say, I never did manage to make any of those engagements stick over the years," Bertie said, cautious. "I'm a bit past it now, really. Used to my carefree bachelor ways, you know."

"But you are alone," the chief said.

Bertie shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I have Jeeves. He's really quite good company."

Chief Mkwan'hembo shook his head sadly. "The man is just a servant, Bertie. It is in no way the same. It's no good for a man to be without a wife," he chided. Napoleon watched Bertie bristle momentarily before taking a breath and letting it go. Jeeves, across the room from him, sat in stone-faced silence through the whole exchange. There was really nothing else either of them could do. It was painful to watch, knowing what he knew. "Now, my eldest sister, here," the chief gestured to a very beautiful older woman sitting with him. "Sarah lost her husband last year, and she would make a good wife for you. She's had seven children, and many grandchildren." Napoleon couldn't help staring in disbelief. "Surely you need someone to carry on the family name, old boy? She could still give you sons."

Sarah smiled at Bertie. "You're very handsome," she said. "You are a wonderful storyteller, and you seem very kind. I think you would make a good husband."

Bertie blinked, obviously trying to regain his composure. "I -- that is, I mean to say, Sarah, you're a lovely gal."

"Thank you!" She grinned at him. "Thomas told me all about you earlier, after you came into the village. He told so many funny stories of your time at Oxford, and I remember his letters home from those years. He still has the policeman's helmet he nicked with you." Napoleon and Illya both turned to look at Bertie at that.

"Really?" Bertie seemed surprised. "Oh, dear. It's just..." Bertie swallowed, took a deep breath, and charged onward. "Well, you see, Sarah, I'm in rather a spot of trouble and I wouldn't want you to be hurt in the middle of all of it. I couldn't possibly ask that of you."

Chief Mkwan'hembo looked at him, head tilted. "This is about the hijacking, yes?"

"Partly," Bertie said. "Actually, yesterday I got shot. I'm all right, but still." His hand drifted to his thigh. "The plane wasn't hijacked by random political radicals. I'm afraid it was me they were after. The pilot was murdered, poor chap, and Illya here got shot while he and Napoleon were trying to take control of the plane again. At least six people are already dead because of this, possibly a few more. I can't be certain, you know. Asassins dropping in the bush around me like overripe fruit and whatnot." Bertie looked over at Jeeves, who nodded subtly. "You see, these chaps," he gestured toward Napoleon and Illya, "are UNCLE agents who were sent to get me out of a rather nasty sitch and bring me back to New York, where we could do something about the whole mess."

"I have heard of the UNCLE," Chief Mkwan'hembo said, nodding. "I'm told they are fair, and that they try to preserve the peace -- they are not on the side of any one government." He looked at Napleon and Illya. "What is this about, if I may ask?"

Napoleon set down the cup he'd been drinking from. Given that Bertie had already spilled the beans, it was time to lay all their cards on the table. "Lord Yaxley has run afoul of an organization known as THRUSH, Chief Mkwan'hembo -- an international gang of thugs bent on world domination. They've spent the last week looking for him, and the last two days trying to kidnap or kill him because of something he discovered. We expect that he will continue to be in danger for some time, until the situation is resolved."

The chief nodded, solemn now. "Sarah," he said, resting his hand over hers, "perhaps Bertie is right. It would not be good to put you at risk like that." He turned his attention to a young man and spoke swiftly to him in their native language. The man got up and hurried out of the room. Napoleon and Illya both tensed, wondering if their explanation might have exposed a THRUSH presence here. "There have been very strange things going on near one of our coffee plantations," he said. "Up on the southwestern slope of Kilimanjaro, in a ravine, we have had reports of many men going in, though few leave. They bring equipment up but carry nothing out. There have been odd, extremely loud sounds, and landslides. Animals have been acting very strangely in the area. One of the herdsmen -- my cousin in fact -- was assaulted up there two weeks ago. I'm wondering if it was not this THRUSH you speak of."

A moment later, the young man came back in with a rifle in hand; he was careful to carry it in a non-threatening manner, obviously not intending to fire. It had the distinctive night-vision scope characteristic of THRUSH weaponry. "This is the weapon that was taken from the man who shot at my cousin," the chief said.

"That's definitely them," Napoleon said, now acutely interested in the situation. Illya relaxed. "Do you have any idea how many men are in the area?"

"I'm uncertain. At least a hundred, from what I have been told. And they are quite violent in keeping people away from whatever they're doing out there." Chief Mkwan'hembo sighed. "I'm sure you understand that I do not want my people hurt. Is there anything your organization can do?"

Napoleon nodded. "Illya and I are not in a position to deal with it personally -- our assignment was to retrieve Lord Yaxley safely and that remains our first priority -- but we will report it to our superiors and I'm certain they'll investigate the situation much more thoroughly, and very soon. The bureau in Nairobi will send agents to talk with you. We've been aware of a problem in East Africa for several months now, and this may be the answer to our questions."

"Finally," Illya muttered, "something about this affair goes right."

"We're not out of the woods yet, partner mine," Napoleon said.

"Thank you," Chief Mkwan'hembo said. "It would be a great relief to have this dealt with." He turned to Bertie. "I appreciate you warning us about this. I don't wish to send my sister into danger, even if I would like to have you as a brother in law."

"Oh, well, of course not." Bertie shrugged, somehow managing to look boyishly charming, bashful, and a bit nonchalant at the same time. "Just my awful luck, old chap. Very sorry, you understand." He smiled at Sarah, cheerful again now that the towering threat of matrimony had been eliminated. Napoleon shook his head; he just couldn't understand Bertie's effect on women. Was the guy giving off pheromones or something? It was getting downright freakish.

Illya leaned in close and whispered into Napoleon's ear. "In a perverse way, it is rather like watching you."

"I find that alarming," Napoleon replied, equally quiet, his face deliciously close to Illya's.

Illya smirked. "Now you know how I feel."

***

The night was glorious, the endless myriad of stars a brilliant river across the African sky as Jeeves gazed upward. The nocturnal sounds, insect trills and the soft lowing of cattle, surrounded him. Most of the past week had been harrowing, but they were, for the moment, safe. Even exhausted and aching, he wanted to enjoy this peace while it lasted.

"'Look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold,'" Bertie said softly, looking upward beside him. "That's the right one, isn't it?"

Jeeves smiled. "It is," he said, turning his eyes to Bertie as they stood near the brush fence at the edge of the village. It was a moonless night, but the starlight was astonishingly bright here, enough to cast dim shadows on the earth. There was no orange glow of a city beyond the horizon to dim the view at all. Bertie had asked to go for a walk after dinner had concluded; Jeeves had no desire to let him venture out alone, and it would afford them some small privacy, at least for a short time. They had both been feeling its lack. Jeeves found their constant concealment growing more wearying to him as the years passed and wished hopelessly that there was no need for it, but he would not trade a moment of their lives together for anything.

Bertie leaned against him, ostensibly to support his painful leg; Jeeves knew it was more for the sake of the physical contact they both craved after too long apart. "I could use a cig, old thing." Jeeves was displeased with the outfit his lover wore, particularly that garish hat, but there were no alternatives for the moment. It was forgivable. Marginally. He was not about to distance himself from Bertie right now.

"Of course, sir." He reached into his jacket's breast pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette case. It had been a gift from Bertie in the early days of their understanding, and it was one that Jeeves cherished immensely. 'I can't give you a ring, you dear old thing,' he'd said, 'but I want to give you something, at least.' The inside of the cover had been engraved only with a quote from _Romeo and Juliet_ : 'Love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs.' Bertie had attempted to shower him with gifts over the years, many of which he had refused due to their inappropriately ostentatious nature, but this was the one he loved above all others. Jeeves lifted a cigarette from it and handed it to Bertie, lighting it for him when he brought it to his lips.

"Thanks awfully."

"Of course, sir." Jeeves smiled again as Bertie puffed, the end of the cylinder flaring bright in the darkness, illuminating his face with a faint, red glow. As Bertie exhaled, he offered the cigarette to Jeeves, who accepted it and took a slow, thoughtful drag himself. While they were outside alone for the moment, they were far too much at risk of an interruption for any overt display of affection between them. This act of sharing a cigarette, his lips where Bertie's had been, was as close as they dared come to a kiss in public. The gesture could not be offered in a formal setting, of course -- a gentleman did not share a cigarette with his valet; it simply was not done -- but when they were walking along a street together or standing out under the stars, just two anonymous men in a crowd, it was much less of an imponderable.

Bertie took the cigarette back from him when he held it out, looking Jeeves in the eye as he took his next puff, the message strong and deliberate. "It's a rum thing, Reg," Bertie said, smoke still wreathing his face after a quick glance about them to assure himself that they were alone.

"What is?"

"Those boys Alex sent to bring us in." Jeeves was surprised by the answer. He had been expecting a complaint about their being stranded in the middle of nowhere, having to sleep in a mud hut and to share a bed with the two young men. It would not have been out of character; Bertie preferred civilized surroundings and the comforts of home and was never hesitant to let him know that, sometimes quite stridently, even on those occasions when Jeeves managed to press him into travel that Bertie ended up enjoying.

"How so, Bertram?" he asked.

Bertie tapped his jaw as he held the cigarette between two thin, elegant fingers. His face was thoughtful, slightly distracted. "I'm not certain, really. There's something there. I can't quite put my finger on it." Bertie looked at him. "They remind me a bit of us when we first met, before we were sure enough to say something."

Jeeves thought of the things he'd seen between the young agents in the past two days. They were close, undeniably. There was a subtle tension between them, layered beneath the easy banter, the jokes, and the casual touches. If they did have feelings for one another, they remained unexpressed, Jeeves was certain. Bertie had developed an uncanny instinct for that sort of thing over the course of his life, and Jeeves trusted his opinion. If this were true, it would offer further context to the look and the nod Jeeves had got from Kuryakin that morning, while he lay beside Bertie. "You may be correct," Jeeves said. He tilted his head, curious. "You have no intention of saying anything, I hope?"

Bertie sighed. "I'm just not sure enough at this point, Reg. But I'll admit I wish I'd had someone to toss me a clue in re self and you back when we were just boys. We might not have wasted three years waltzing about one another like we did."

"It was dangerous then, and it remains dangerous now, Bertram," Jeeves said, wishing to reassure his lover. "However, I will point out that we did finally come to a most satisfactory understanding on our own."

"Oh, I know, I know." Bertie leaned a little more heavily on him. "Their lives are so dangerous, though. They may not have the kind of time we have. I'd hate to think of them wasting all of it, worrying about what might happen."

"There were more than enough times over the years," Jeeves said, wishing he could take Bertie into his arms, "when our lives were in mortal danger. We survived despite the odds being greatly against us. They are professionals, Bertram, more so than we ever were. I have complete confidence in their ability to protect one another." Some of those memories still gave Jeeves nightmares. They made him all the more grateful for Bertie's continuing presence in his life. He settled for slowly brushing a bit of imaginary dust off the lapels of the black jacket Bertie wore, lamenting the awful _kanzu_ beneath it.

Bertie paused, puffing a few more times on the cigarette before he handed it back to Jeeves. "I'm sure you're right, old thing, but you know how I am."

Jeeves tucked the cigarette between his lips as he replied. "I know you want to help, love, but you aren't certain yet. We will no doubt have several more days before we arrive in New York. It will not hurt to wait and continue to observe. If you're right, I'm sure some opportunity will arise."

Bertie nodded, acquiescing. "Excellent counsel, as always, Reg."

"We should retire for the night," Jeeves said, snubbing out the butt of the cigarette on the bottom of his heel and tossing the dead remainder away. "We are both exhausted and we have no way of knowing what the morrow will bring."

"Of course," Bertie said, tucking his arm into Jeeves's for support as they turned to walk back to Chief Mkwan'hembo's abode.

***

Napoleon woke to Illya's limbs tangled with his, their bodies pressed together, smelling of warmth and sleep. It was another morning erection situation, and this time they both had them -- he could feel Illya's brushing against his own as Napoleon tried to move, and it shot a _frisson_ of desire through him. Thankfully, Illya was still deeply asleep. He was also slightly feverish, though not enough to break a sweat. Napoleon nuzzled Illya, taking advantage of the situation in a sleepy moment of weakness. It felt wonderful. He struggled with a strong temptation to kiss the man, but refused to give in to it. Damn Illya for being so tantalizing, even asleep. Napoleon wondered what the hell he was going to do about this if it became any more distracting. Illya would probably deck him.

In the dim, filtered light of the bedroom, Napoleon could see that Jeeves had already risen and gone off to do whatever it was that valets did in the morning. Bertie lay sleeping next to them, separated from them by several inches, his body curled around a bundled up blanket. He looked entirely incongruous in his coral pink silk pyjamas, jumbled in amid animal skins and rough blankets.

Napoleon was in the process of untangling himself carefully from Illya's tenacious embrace when Jeeves came in with three tiny cups of strong, cardamon and ginger spiced coffee on a tray. There was an embarrassing moment when their eyes met, but Jeeves said nothing and simply set the tray down on the chest next to the bed. He cleared his throat softly and reached down through the circle of mosquito netting that surrounded the bed to gently touch Bertie's shoulder as Napoleon sat, yawning and stretching to drive away the slight stiffness he'd developed overnight.

"Good morning, sir," Jeeves murmured, speaking to Bertie. Illya shifted slightly beside Napoleon, rising toward wakefulness.

Bertie grumbled something incoherent, his eyes still closed, then quietly asked, "What kind of a day is it, Jeeves?"

"It is a clear, bright day, sir, with some slight cirrus clouds to the west. While it is currently cool with the sun rising behind Kilimanjaro, it promises to be hot and dry for our travel." This had the feel of a ritual to it, Napoleon thought. "There is coffee for you, sir." Bertie finally looked up at Jeeves, levering himself up on one elbow so he could take the tiny cup from his valet's hand.

"Thank you, Jeeves." Bertie gave him a tired but genuine smile.

Jeeves looked at Napoleon. "Mr Solo, would you like a cup of coffee?"

Napoleon nodded, taking the offered cup as Illya groaned softly. "Yes, thanks." He poked Illya gently. "Coffee, _tovarisch_ ," he said, handing Illya the cup he'd been given as Illya pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Coffee," Illya agreed, his voice still rough with sleep. He sipped without bothering to look around him, his eyes half closed. Napoleon took the last cup as Jeeves handed it to him, sipping the heady, spice-enhanced brew as well.

"Breakfast will be in approximately twenty minutes, gentlemen," Jeeves announced. "Mr Kuryakin is expected at the clinic by Doctor Billingsley immediately afterwards. Chief Mkwan'hembo's grandson will be driving us to Nairobi. The young man's name is Jacob. He asks that we be ready to depart in an hour. The trip is a long one."

"Right ho, Jeeves," Bertie said, handing him back the cup. "Odd stuff, that. Hardly tastes like coffee at all."

"It is traditional, sir," Jeeves replied, taking a few moments to get Bertie dressed again and their things collected into their valise. "Not the hat, sir," Jeeves said, sounding pained, as Bertie put the cap on his now-combed hair.

Bertie smirked at his valet, casually tossing the man's words back at him. "It's traditional, Jeeves. I wouldn't want to insult old Rugger by refusing to wear what he's given me."

Jeeves gave a long-suffering roll of his eyes and visibly restrained a sigh. "Of course not, sir. We shall purchase proper attire once we are in Nairobi." Bertie chuckled and nodded, obviously pleased by his victory. They departed, leaving Napoleon and Illya to deal with their own morning.

"You all right?" Napoleon asked, taking Illya's drained cup and setting both of the small ceramic vessels on the tray that Jeeves had left. No doubt he'd be back for it shortly.

"I will be better once the caffeine takes effect." Illya gave him a bleary look.

Napoleon reached over and brushed soft, golden hair out of Illya's eyes. "You have a fever," he said.

"You have a talent for the obvious," Illya grumbled. "I also have a headache."

"How's your chest doing?" Napoleon didn't note any staining on the bandages; Illya had gone to bed wearing only his undershorts, keeping Napoleon's undershirt for something more or less clean to wear during the day. Waking skin to skin had been much more sensual than he'd expected.

"It hurts. Beyond that, we will find out when the doctor replaces the bandages." Illya crawled over Napoleon to get to the edge of the bed. He could see his partner was still half-hard. It affected him more than he expected, and he stayed under the cover for another minute or so, watching Illya dress, trying to get his reaction under control. Maybe if he got laid in Nairobi, he wouldn't be quite so bothered by it. There had to be a willing woman at the Nairobi office. It was only a day and a half away. "Are you coming?" Illya asked, turning to him as he finished zipping his trousers. Napoleon refused to utter the reply on the tip of his tongue.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he said. Illya gave him an odd look and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Napoleon sighed and got out of bed, his body more or less obeying his will. Illya handed him his trousers.

"Just because we're not currently in any danger is no excuse to stay in bed all day." Illya tossed Napoleon's shirt at him. Napoleon caught it with one hand, holding his trousers up with the other.

"Your charm hasn't suffered at all," Napoleon grumbled. A few sharp motions and he was zipping his trousers and buckling his belt. "Tie?" Illya handed it to him and Napoleon slid it around his neck. Illya stepped closer and took it from his hands, knotting it for him. Napoleon watched him, bemused, until Illya patted the tie on his chest.

"Better," he said. Napoleon stooped to put on his socks and shoes and they both proceeded into the main room. The facilities were not a part of the main house, and he and Illya walked out into the early morning to find the small building where they could relieve themselves. It was a glorious, clear day, as Jeeves had promised. By the time they returned, there was hot water to wash their hands and face, and breakfast was being set out.

Bertie was already seated with the chief and a young man, who was apparently Jacob, when they arrived. Jacob was dressed much like Bertie, though his hat was a mustard yellow with black embroidery; obviously the outfit was regarded as appropriate for the city. Jeeves stood patiently nearby, watching as the morning's food was laid out in large pots, like dinner had been the night before. Breakfast was quick, and Napoleon and Illya walked over to the clinic as Bertie continued his conversation with Chief Mkwan'hembo when they were done eating. Napoleon checked his communicator again during the walk, but the interference seemed even stronger here.

"Good morning!" Juila said, greeting them cheerfully. "Let's have a look at your stitches, Mr Kuryakin."

Illya got onto the exam table. "I hope this will be quick."

Julia stuffed a thermometer into his mouth, effectively silencing him as she put on some gloves and unwrapped the bandages. "Hmm," she said, examining him with a critical eye.

"What?" Illya asked, around the thermometer.

"Hush," Julia said. "Don't talk until you're done." Tossing the used bandages into a basket, she touched Illya's skin near the stitches. The wound was dry, but the redness had increased. "Well, the infection is spreading, but you should be fine until you get to the city." She pulled the thermometer from Illya's mouth. "And you have a mild fever."

"I know that," Illya said. "And a headache."

"From the fever," the doctor said, gently applying an antibiotic gel and re-wrapping the wound. "I'll give you aspirin and some codeine for the next two days. As soon as you arrive in Nairobi, you must see a doctor there. You don't want this to get any worse than it will be when you get there. You may need to have the stitches redone, if an abscess develops under them." Julia's words were insistent, and Napoleon didn't doubt the seriousness of the situation.

"I'll see to it, Julia," Napoleon said. Illya just grunted. Julia took her gloves off and handed Illya some pills and a glass of water, and Illya swallowed the aspirin without complaint. Napoleon saw him palm the stronger pill.

"Sleep as much as you're able on the drive," she added, pouring a few pills into two small paper envelopes. She scribbled on both of them with a pencil. "You need the rest, and it will help." Julia handed Illya the packets. "This one is aspirin. Two tablets every four hours. This," she said, handing him the other one, "is codeine. As needed for your rib."

Illya nodded. "Thank you." He surreptitiously dropped the pill he'd palmed into the packet with the others.

Julia handed him sterile packs, as well. "These are bandages. Change them twice a day. And swabs for applying the antibiotic." After digging in a tiny refrigerator, she handed him a small tube. "Antibiotic. Any questions, Mr Kuryakin?"

"No." Illya shook his head. "I've had stitches often enough to know what to do."

"All right, then," Julia said, finally smiling at him as she washed her hands. "Please take care of yourself, Mr Kuryakin, and of that dear man, Lord Yaxley. He's such a sweet, handsome gentleman. I'd hate to think of him being hurt again."

"Believe me, doctor," Illya said, "I have absolutely no desire to see anyone damaged further in this affair."

"Thank you, Julia," Napoleon purred, taking the doctor's hand and kissing it. "You have been an angel of mercy." Illya rolled his eyes.

"Mr Solo," she said, blushing. Her green eyes sparkled at him as she smiled, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

As they left the clinic, Illya elbowed Napoleon. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

"It never hurts to compliment a lady," Napoleon responded, smiling at his partner.

"I need something to put all this in." Illya sighed. "Maybe Jeeves will put it in his valise for me."

Napoleon pointed. "You can ask him." In the distance between several huts, he could see Jeeves helping Jacob load the Land Rover with equipment and supplies for their trek across Tanzania.

Jeeves saw them as they arrived and nodded to Illya. "Shall I take those, Mr Kuryakin?" he asked, as formal and polite as ever.

Illya nodded, handing him the packets. "Please. I was going to ask if you would find a place for them."

"Of course, sir. We should be departing in about five minutes."

"Do you need any help?" Napoleon asked.

"It's all right, thank you," Jacob said. "We have most of it done already. We just have to pack the water for the trip." He gestured toward two pretty young women approaching them, large plastic containers balanced on their heads. "My sisters are bringing it for us."

"The tent has been properly secured, sir," Jeeves said to Jacob as he placed Illya's packets in his valise and tucked it behind the rear bench seat. "There is room here for the water."

Napoleon could see a large bundle that had to be the tent, along with camp gear and a basket with food for the next two days. A rifle -- not the THRUSH special -- was braced against the back of the Rover's front seat, probably for wildlife problems or perhaps for dinner that night, though it would be useful if there was trouble. There were a great number of empty containers as well. "Why the empty containers?" Napoleon asked.

"We never waste a trip to Nairobi, or to any city," Jacob answered. "I'll be spending three days there. There are many things that my grandfather has asked me to bring back for the village, and I will need a way to carry everything. And then there are the bribes for the border guards at Namanga," he said, matter-of-fact about the whole thing. "I won't have grandfather's friend to pay them on the way home."

"I see," Napoleon said. It made perfect sense. Bribes were a way of life here. Their UNCLE identification would no doubt smooth the way somewhat. Jacob's sisters arrived, smiling brightly at Napoleon as they handed off the water containers to Jeeves. The valet slid them into the space beside the tent bundle.

"Thank you, Miss Anne, Miss Mary." Jeeves nodded to them and the young women hurried away after a few words with Jeeves and their brother. "If we are done, sir, I shall go and collect Lord Yaxley."

Jacob nodded. "Yes, Jeeves, and thank you. We're ready now."

"I suppose we should say our goodbyes to your grandfather," Napoleon said.

"Of course," Jacob said, nodding and gesturing toward the chief's house. "He'll expect it. I will be here when you all return."

***

The morning was slow and quiet. Napoleon sat in one of the back cargo seats with Illya sprawled next to him, asleep, his head resting on Napleon's shoulder. He was drooling slightly, but Napoleon didn't shift him. If Illya wasn't going to take his pain medication, Napoleon wasn't going to keep him from sleeping when he needed it. He'd be awake at a moment's notice if there was any trouble.

Jeeves and Bertie were in the bench seat in front them. Bertie had dropped off right away, which Napoleon had expected, but now even Jeeves was sleeping. He'd made a heroic effort to stay awake, very much interested in the passing landscape and the wildlife, but exhaustion and stress had taken their toll. Jeeves sat braced against the side of the Rover with Bertie curled up in his lap, Jeeves's arm draped over him posessively. Bertie's hat had been unceremoniously tossed into the back of the Rover the moment Bertie had closed his eyes, much to Napoleon's amusement. The arguments over clothing were obviously an age-old theme with them, more fond than sharp, and Bertie seemed to expect the destruction of particularly colorful items at regular intervals.

Jacob talked with him, holding forth on a surprisingly wide number of topics, from European politics to coffee plantations to South American poets. "I returned from Oxford last year," he said, when Napoleon asked about his interests. "Grandfather and his father made sure that we had a good education, so that our people could do well under the colonial powers. Now that Tanzania is no longer a colonial government, that education will help us direct our own fate." He smiled. "My father is in Parliament, and I will be, too, in time. Right now I'm teaching at the school in our village until the elders think I'm old enough to go to Dar Es Salaam and work for my father."

"That's an admirable goal," Napoleon said, genuinely impressed. "I'm sure you'll do well."

"I'd like to travel more," Jacob admitted, "but I have responsibilities here. I would love to visit New York someday." There was a quiet longing in the young man's voice that Napoleon could appreciate.

"Perhaps you will." Napoleon yawned in the gathering heat. "If I'm in town when you come, I'd be happy to show you around." Jacob responded with enthusiasm, and they talked about New York and the other cities Napoleon had visited, both as a part of his work for UNCLE and on those occasions when he traveled for his own purposes. The road was occasionally blocked by massive herds of zebra or antelope, adding more time to their already long trip along the deeply-rutted, barely-existent road. Napoleon woke Jeeves when they came upon a herd of elephants browsing in a copse of trees. Jeeves had watched in silent fascination until they passed the animals, thanking Napoleon for allowing him the chance to see them, before he settled back into his nap.

By the time Napoleon was getting hungry, Jacob announced a stop for the midday meal. Once they were both awake, Jeeves and Bertie bickered quietly like the old married couple they were over the more formal safari that Jeeves wanted but was obviously never going to get, while Jacob pulled the food basket from the back of the Rover and Napoleon got a fire started. Illya stretched, wincing at the pain in his rib. "You should take a codeine, partner mine," Napoleon told him.

"I do not need one," Illya insisted, dropping himself onto a convenient rock to sit and watch Napoleon. "It would be very bad if we were ambushed and I was unable to wake quickly enough to help."

Napoleon sighed, adding small twigs to the flickering fire, encouraging its growth. "You do have a point."

"Of course I have a point. I am right." Illya smirked at him, reaching over to give his thigh a pat. "You should be used to that by now."

Jacob brought the basket over and set it by the fire, pulling out plantains and a number of mystery ingredients Napoleon didn't recognize. He set to preparing their food, and Jeeves came over, offering to help. "It's all right," Jacob said. "I like doing this." He looked up at Jeeves. "Don't tell my family. They think only women should do the cooking."

"I should not like to cause any familial discord, sir," Jeeves said evenly. He looked vaguely lost without something to do, but finally settled himself next to Bertie, who was sitting on a log nearby, leaning back against a convenient tree in the shade. It had obviously been recently ravaged by an elephant, several of its limbs broken and leafless. Bertie asked Jeeves for a cigarette, which the men then shared, while Napoleon got the fire built up enough to cook over.

Jacob turned out to be quite a good cook, and everyone had an enjoyable lunch. Illya, as Napoleon expected, packed away anything that wasn't nailed down. Jeeves cleaned up the dishes afterward; even Jacob wasn't interested in doing that sort of work.

They'd been on the road for several hours when they ran into the lions. No one had drifted back to sleep yet, so Jacob had slowed down to let them all watch the impressive cats under the shade of a copse of trees. Jeeves was quietly delighted, while Bertie's eyes were huge and round as he stared at the pride as they wandered closer. The next thing Napoleon knew, there was a large lioness thudding onto the hood of the Rover and Jacob told them to close the windows as the rest of the pride came over to investigate. Everyone shut windows frantically as the pride surrounded them, and Bertie yelped when one of the younger lions tried to get his paw in through a window before Bertie got it closed enough to keep him out. There was a roar and Bertie nearly flew across the seat, landing in Jeeves's arms, trembling as he squeaked something incoherent. Illya drew his pistol, just in case. Napoleon wasn't exactly sanguine about the whole process himself, but Jacob turned the engine off.

"Why are we stopping, sir?" Jeeves asked, his voice slightly sharp. Bertie buried his face in Jeeves's chest.

Jacob looked back at him. "Now that the windows are closed enough, they can't get in. There are too many of them for us to shoot, and two of them are sitting in the road in front of us. Eventually, they'll get bored and go away. I hope." He looked nervously at the lioness peering in at them through the windscreen. It nosed the dusty glass and snuffled, leaving a streaky nose-print. Jacob backed away slightly.

"Well, you wanted a safari, Jeeves," Bertie snapped, obviously half-terrified. "Now you have one. Lions, lions everywhere, and not a something whatsit. I hope you're happy."

Jeeves closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself, as he tucked a reassuring arm around Bertie. "We will be all right, sir. The beasts cannot get into the vehicle."

Now that they were safely enclosed, Illya leaned back and just watched the animals, his arms crossed over his chest, pistol still clenched in one fist. "At least we know that THRUSH can't get to us through this."

Napoleon snorted and shook his head.

"A-are you sure they're not doing some mind-control thingummy on them?" Bertie asked, from the safety of Jeeves's arms. It was a fair question, Napoleon thought. Stranger things happened when THRUSH was involved.

Jeeves tilted an eyebrow at him. "I sincerely doubt that, sir."

"Where's Tarzan when you need him?" Napoleon grumbled.

"Probably following Jane around," Illya answered.

It was several long, stifling hours before the lions got bored enough to leave their large metal toy. They stared in the windows, sniffed at the roof vents, slept on the roof, batted the tires, played under the chassis, and pounced one another from the various vantage points provided by the Rover's flat surfaces.

Bertie stayed stuck to Jeeves like a limpet despite the heat through most of the incident, though Bertie got calmer as the time passed and eventually just rested, slightly nervous, in Jeeves's solid embrace. Jeeves spent a good deal of that time gently petting Bertie's back to calm him, largely unflustered once he had decided they were in no real danger. Napoleon found himself surprised at how much they could get away with and how genuinely close they could be without anyone suspecting them. Their master and manservant act was flawless, and Bertie's genuine moments of flightiness only gave them better cover when Jeeves had to offer real reassurance.

Illya asked at least twice if he couldn't shoot one of the lions, but Jacob replied, "We would have to open a window wider." Bertie vetoed the window-opening idea in the strongest possible terms, with Jeeves backing him on it, bristling substantially at the idea of any potential threat to his lover. Napoleon had to admit he wasn't too keen on the whole window-opening thing, either. Shooting a lion with a pistol was more likely to annoy it severely than kill it, so even shooting one wasn't guaranteed to drive them away. Sleep darts certainly weren't an answer, either. Between them, they didn't have enough to knock out all the lions, and they might well need them for THRUSH operatives. It wouldn't do to waste valuable resources. As to the one available rifle, it was a bit close-range for that, and not entirely necessary if they would just remain patient and keep drinking enough water.

As the day cooled into early evening, one of the lions spotted something tasty in the bush nearby, and the entire pride slunk away in a matter of moments, vanishing as though they had never existed, leaving only a series of dusty pawprints on the vehicle. Jacob, relieved, started the engine and sped them down the road at a much greater speed than was probably advisable, bouncing them all over the inside of the vehicle as the men opened windows for some precious airflow. Illya protested the rough treatment, justifiably pleading a cracked rib, but after about five miles, Jacob slowed and finally stopped.

"I need a walk," Jacob said. "And I need some food and a private moment behind a bush."

Bertie eyed him, unconvinced. "Are you sure we're far enough away, young man?"

"The lions were going in the other direction," Jacob said, stopping the Rover and hopping out. "You can stay in there if you like, but we're all right for the moment, and you really should cool off in the breeze."

"He's got a point," Illya said, following Jacob out of the Rover.

"Well, I _suppose_ I could stretch the old legs," Bertie said, reluctant.

Jeeves opened the door and got out, offering Bertie a hand. "It would be advisable, sir," he said.

That settled, everyone spent some time stretching and taking a break. Tea and a light snack were made -- this time provided by Jeeves -- and Jacob said they'd give it another hour on the road before they stopped to make camp.

Bertie was skittish when they finally came to a halt for the day. "Will the tent be anywhere near enough protection if more lions come along?" he asked. "It just seems awfully... well... thinnish, if you know what I mean. Like stopping a charging bull with a pocket square, what?"

"We put anything that smells like food in the Rover and burn our trash," Jacob said. "Mostly they will not bother us. This afternoon, the lions were just curious. When they were hungry, they went to find something else instead of trying to eat us, yes?"

"And we are armed," Illya noted.

Jacob nodded. "I am more worried about baboons trying to get to the food than lions."

"Oh. Right ho. Elephants won't step on us?" Bertie asked, skeptical. "They're very large and house-like, if houses walked about the savannah with trumpets on their noses. If houses had noses." He looked vaguely puzzled.

"They will see the tent and the Rover," Jacob assured him.

Bertie sighed. "I'm just not very keen on this camping wheeze," he said. "It can't possibly be comfortable to sleep on the ground."

"It's only for one night," Napoleon said, hoping to encourage him. "Tomorrow it'll be a hotel bed in Nairobi. Hot showers, dinner at a restaurant, and a cold drink."

Bertie pursed his lips. "Well, there's nothing for it, really, I suppose. Stiff upper lip and all that. I did spend time kipping in a shed once, after all." He sagged just a little, wilted from the heat and the day.

"Indeed, sir," Jeeves said, taking his arm and escorting him back to one of the Rover's seats while the rest of them unloaded the camp gear. Napoleon was genuinely surprised that Bertie wasn't complaining more. He had to admit the man was a little tougher than he'd first appeared, and certainly much more intelligent and resourceful, but he'd really expected the man to throw a snit at having to sleep on the ground. Bertie obviously didn't care for the situation, but he was making the best of it and generally being cooperative instead of making a nuisance of himself. It was one worry off Napoleon's mind.

Napoleon kept an eye on Illya as well, not letting him do anything that would aggravate the cracked rib. "If we need you, I want you to be able to move, _tovarisch_ ," he replied, when Illya complained. "There's no sense in damaging yourself if you don't have to."

"I suppose you are right," Illya grumbled, obviously chafing at not feeling well. He'd been sweating from the fever on and off through the day, beyond just the sauna in the Rover and, though he hadn't said anything, he looked like he was a bit dizzy from it.

"Don't worry," Napoleon added, squeezing Illya's shoulder. "If the THRUSHies come along, you're more than welcome to wrestle with half a dozen of them if you like. I won't stop you." That, however, put the image of Illya wrestling into his mind, which Napoleon definitely did not need to dwell upon. There were moments when he hated his imagination.

***

Illya had given in to a dangerous impulse that morning, tying Napoleon's tie for him. He attributed it to the fever. It wasn't acute, but there was always a chance it was scrambling his brains. Sleeping in the Rover had helped, but he still felt awful when they stopped to make camp for the night. The moments of dizziness annoyed him, but there was little he could do about them.

They ate well, which Illya appreciated, and then Napoleon changed his bandage for him. Illya lay back against the Rover's front tire as Napoleon swabbed his chest wound with antibiotic, then leaned forward so his partner could re-wrap him. He ached after the long day in the heat, and the jolts he'd taken when Jacob had hurried them away from the lions.

Looking over to the tent through the mosquito netting, he could see Jeeves kneeling inside it, dealing with the stitches on Bertie's thigh. Unaware that they were being observed, there was a softening of the old valet's guarded demeanor and an obvious tenderness in his touch that moved Illya. He wished, just for a moment, that someone might love him like that someday. He looked back at Napoleon, who was intent on fastening the bandage around him securely. "Better, _tovarisch_?" Napoleon asked, his voice soft and, perhaps, slightly more concerned than normal.

"'Better' would be out of the bush, or at least working communicators," Illya said. "It will do, though. I'll be glad to get to Nairobi tomorrow. I am in desperate need of a shower and a real bed."

"You're not the only one." Napoleon wrinkled his nose. "Five hours in that rolling sauna and I smell like you did after that affair at Chacua." He paused for a moment. " _You_ smell like you did after the affair at Chacua."

"Do not remind me," Illya groaned. "All that effort and I blew up the wrong computer."

"Only the first time," Napoleon said, smiling.

"You blew the real one up," Illya reminded him. "I was the decoy for the troops."

"Oh, right." Napoleon took the old bandage -- clean enough, as his wound hadn't been seeping into most of it -- and wiped sweat from Illya's face. "You're a mess, Illya. You really should get some sleep."

Illya nodded. "Aspirin first." Napoleon handed him the paper packet of aspirin.

"You want a codeine, too?" There was a hint of 'you'd better' to the question.

With a sigh, Illya gave in. "All right. I suppose so. The likelihood of a THRUSH attack here tonight is fairly low, I'd say."

"And don't palm it like you did this morning at the clinic," Napoleon insisted. He handed Illya a cup of water and Illya took the pills, including the codeine. "Good boy." Napoleon patted his cheek and Illya growled at him.

"Do not do that again if you wish to keep your hand," he advised. At least Napoleon hadn't been patronizing when he'd cleaned away the sweat on his brow. That, actually, had felt rather nice.

Napoleon raised both hands, palms open toward him. "I'll keep that in mind. Want a hand up?" He stood and offered one hand to Illya, who grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.

They used a little of their water to wash up before entering the tent. Jacob was already asleep on the far end of the space, tucked against a wall, and Bertie and Jeeves were lying down, attempting to get comfortable. "The ground is just so dashed unforgiving," Bertie grumbled into the darkness as Illya stumbled in with Napoleon behind him.

"Perhaps, sir, my shoulder might be a slightly more comfortable resting-place," Jeeves answered, with just enough of the long-suffering servant to his voice to be entirely convincing despite what Illya knew.

"Well," Bertie said, a thin layer of skepticism precisely imitated, "if you think it's all right." Bertie wriggled over and curled up against Jeeves, resting his head on the man's chest. Jeeves wrapped an arm about him in response, their figures indistinct in the night. "I suppose you're right, old thing. Thank you."

"Good night, sir." Jeeves's voice was gentle and quiet.

"Good night, Jeeves." Illya could nearly hear Bertie's smile. There was a tightness in his chest that Illya identified as a mild streak of jealousy; why couldn't he have something like that? It was a ludicrous desire, he thought, particularly where Napoleon was concerned.

"Come on, Bonzo, bedtime," Napoleon murmured, shedding his wrinkled and abused suit, and shuffling blankets around to find room for both of them. Illya delivered a half-hearted toe to Napoleon's side, eliciting a muffled 'oof.' He chuckled to himself as he got undressed, but hissed when he lay down, as his rib protested. "You need an extra blanket for padding?" Napoleon asked.

"Something to lean against," Illya said, thinking that a soft but solid surface might brace him slightly and make it less painful.

"Here." Napoleon tucked himself a little closer and pressed himself to Illya's back, bare skin against skin, letting Illya rest at a slight angle against his body. It did help the ache a bit, though the skin contact was quite distracting. He suddenly found himself thinking that there was a rather strong resemblance between the excuses Bertie and Jeeves had made, and what had just happened. Sighing, he smiled into the darkness. Napoleon's arm came around him but really, where else did Napoleon have to put it? Illya wasn't going to read too much into what was probably just a natural concern for a partner's wellbeing. They'd had to care for one another under much more difficult circumstances, after all. No, it was just wishful thinking and not worth losing any sleep over. Besides, the codeine was starting to make his head even fuzzier than the fever already had. Sleep. Sleep was good.

***

Safaris. Bertie had endured more than enough of one in the last day and a half to supply several lifetimes. Not that it was Jeeves's fault for actually craving adventure -- there was his viking blood to consider, after all -- but he did wish Jeeves wasn't quite so obviously gleeful at having been dropped into the middle of Tanza-bloody-nia with elephants and crocodiles and baboons and hippos and _lions_ , dash it all! The man was practically smiling! Bertie had no desire at all to be leonine snack food. Surely he was too old and stringy by now to be of much interest anyway. At least, he hoped that would be the case. There was no accounting for some giant dun feline's tastes, one had to admit. They did, however, remind him entirely too much of the various beazels he'd had to dodge over the years. Or possibly aunts. They were very aunt-like. Especially the roaring. And the teeth. Definitely the teeth.

He'd spent a rather rough night ensconced in the Jeevesian arms. While he was less tired than he had been, the vicissi-whatsits of their beleaguered travel and the awful, unyielding hardness of the ground had left him miserably achy and, he would have to admit, slightly out of sorts. He would, however, absolutely deny that he was pouting, which Jeeves had had the temerity to suggest earlier in the day when Bertie been sitting on the far end of the bench seat from his beloved. The man was having entirely too much fun for Bertie's tastes, particularly given the absolute dearth of a good brandy and s., or even any bally eggs and b. for breakfast! It was enough to ruin the sunniest disposish.

Bertie's disgruntlement had gradually subsided over the course of the morning, and lunch had put him in much better spirits. This left him silently contemplating his young guardians again, since he had nothing better to do with his time as they jolted and bumped over what could only charitably be described as a mining pit, thoroughly enhanced with the most annoying characteristics of a steeplechase course, cunningly disguised as something vaguely road-like. If he still had kidneys when he arrived in Nairobi, he would be in a state of shock like unto that of the Apostle Paul when the vision of Our Lord had whacked him in the head on that road to D-wherever. Jeeves would know. Drasticus. Damask. Damascus, that was the chappie.

As the countryside lurched and wobbled by, Bertie laid out some of the things he'd been observing since he'd met the blokes.

  1. Napoleon had his hands on young Illya as often as he could manage it.
    1. In fact, Illya was snoozing leaned up against him right at that moment, with Napoleon's arm tucked about him to keep him from bouncing off the seat, and there was a suspicious glaze of the tender pash in Napoleon's eyes.
  

  2. Illya watched Napoleon like an entire bally squadron of wistful hawks whenever Napoleon wasn't looking.
  

  3. Napoleon, Illya, ditto. Whole bucketsful of wist were being sloshed.
  

  4. There was enough silent, nearly invisible mooning going on from both sides for a clear half-dozen of the soppiest Rosie M. Banks novels, with a side order of secret sorrow.
  

  5. Neither young man appeared to have figured out that said mooning was being... well... mooned.
  



_Conclusion: Yearning hearts were obviously yearning to be united, but had no idea how that sort of u. was supposed to proceed. Something clearly Must Be Done._

Bertie sighed. Jeeves, sensing the sigh in that mysterious way he had about him, looked over at him. Bertie, who was still leaning with his back up against the far wall of the Rover -- clutching the back of the seat to save himself from being shot out of the open window -- across from where Jeeves sat, tossed a brief glance at the young men. Jeeves took a subtle peek at them, then back to Bertie, and nodded. It seemed the fish-fed paragon agreed with his assessment. Bertie's leg extended slightly on the seat until his toes slipped under Jeeves's thigh. Really, it was just to balance himself against the bouncing of the Rover. A bit more spread to support the Wooster frame meant a somewhat more stable Bertram. Jeeves's hand on the Wooster ankle was just his valet bracing himself when the Rover rocked hard from side to side.

***

Napoleon suppressed a groan. They'd been making reasonable time, and weren't that far from the Kenyan border when the Land Rover's engine sputtered and died. He'd hoped to be in Nairobi soon, and had been desperately looking forward to a shower and getting some clean clothes. That, and getting Illya to a doctor. The fever had gained some ground over the course of the day, and the redness and swelling around Illya's wound had become more pronounced overnight, as he'd noted when he'd changed his partner's bandages that morning.

Jacob got out of the vehicle and peered under the hood. His muffled words weren't in English, but there was no mistaking the frustration in them. Jeeves exited the Rover as Bertie moaned, opening the door for him and steadying him as he wobbled to his feet.

"Good Lord, I need to walk. I'll never move again if I don't. I'm stiff as a particularly unyielding boulder after it's been lectured by an aunt." Bertie leaned on Jeeves and the two of them joined Jacob in looking under the hood.

Napoleon shifted himself, wanting to get up as well. A walk would be a welcome change from the rough ride they'd been enduring. Illya woke, muzzy. "Are we at the border yet?"

"No," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "Engine trouble."

" _Chyort_." Illya's head dropped back onto Napoleon's shoulder. "I hope it is nothing serious."

"Jacob's taking a look. I'm going to go find out. There's no reason for you to get up right now."

Illya's eyes squeezed shut. "The only thing missing from this scenario is a THRUSH ambush."

"I suspect it'll stay missing for a while, _moi droog_. I promise, if there's any action, I won't let you miss it." Napoleon ruffled Illya's hair fondly; Illya grumbled at him but leaned up enough for Napoleon to get out of the back of the Rover before lying back down across both seats. Making his way up to the front of the Rover, Napoleon looked under the hood with everyone else. "What's happened?"

"I am not sure yet," Jacob said, testy. "I have not had a chance to find out."

"I have some knowledge of engines," Jeeves offered. "I would be quite willing to assist you."

Jacob looked up at him and nodded. " _Ndiyo_ , that would be most welcome. Thank you."

Bertie sighed, wilting a bit. "I need a cig, Jeeves. And a walk."

Jeeves took his cigarette case from his breast pocket and opened it, offering it to Bertie, who took one and smiled at Jeeves as the man lit it for him. "It would not be advisable for you to walk out here alone, sir," he said.

"I'll go with him," Napoleon said. "I need to see if we're still being jammed anyway, and the walk would do me some good, I think."

Bertie took a puff from his newly-lit cigarette and smiled at Napoleon as he blew the smoke into the slight breeze. "Lovely. Let's be off, then." He turned a significant look on Jeeves, but its meaning was lost on Napoleon. Napoleon offered Bertie an arm to lean on, which he accepted with a smile. When they'd wandered ten yards or so away from the Rover, Bertie asked, "How's your young friend? He was looking a bit peaked this morning."

"Still feverish," Napoleon said as they walked. Bertie's limp was fairly pronounced. He had to be hurting. He seemed genuinely grateful for the assistance Napoleon had offered, at least. "The infection's spreading. I'll be relieved when we can finally get him in to a doctor. He was too stubborn to take any pain pills today."

Bertie shook his head. "Poor chap. I do hope he'll be all right."

"He's tough. It'll take more than an infection and a fever to lay him out."

Bertie nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sure you're right." He looked back at their vehicle. "We should stay in sight of the car, my boy. Jeeves will fret."

"Of course." Napoleon couldn't help smiling. The old men were closer than any other couple he'd ever met, and it charmed him to see it. He was actually quite fond of both of them, though Jeeves kept himself thoroughly behind his mask and rarely said much. The pair of them seemed to have developed their own silent language over the years: significant looks, slight touches, the tilt of a head, a raised eyebrow, all seemed to speak volumes between them. It was more heartening than he could have imagined. Bertie raised a hand as he looked toward Jeeves, and the old valet nodded. Napoleon wondered what it would be like to know someone that completely, that intimately.

They made a slow arc to the south as they walked, and Bertie coughed into his fist. "Napoleon, my boy, do you ever think about love?"

Napoleon stopped dead and stared at Bertie, confused. "What?"

"Love," Bertie said. "The old comforteth like sunshine after rain stuff. What a young chap's heart turns to in spring and all that."

Napoleon stared at him, even more confused. "I know what love is. What I don't know is why you're asking _me_ about it."

Bertie sighed. "Right. Sorry. I never do manage to get into these things without tripping all over myself. It's resulted in entirely too many accidental engagements over the years." He puffed on his cigarette again as Napoleon waited for him to explain himself. Bertie looked back up at him. "Well, then. You see, dear boy, over the past few days I've had occasion to notice a thing here and a thing there."

Napoleon froze. "Notice what?"

Finishing his cigarette, Bertie dropped it on the ground and crushed it out with the twist of a foot. "The way you look at your friend," he said. "The way you touch him." Napoleon blinked. "Oh, it's not a thing that would be obvious to just anyone." Bertie smiled, quirking one end of his mouth up a bit. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. I know what kind of trouble that sort of thing can bring to a chap." A sadness entered Bertie's eyes that belied the smile remaining on his lips.

With a nod, Napoleon said, "I knew about the nature of the scandal that made you leave England." He was still trying to figure out how Bertie had caught him out. His heart was beating furiously, wondering if Illya had noticed too, and just not said anything. He wondered if Illya was going to hand him his teeth when he recovered from the infection.

Bertie regarded him for a moment, silent, then nodded. "I suppose I should have guessed. I'm sure it was somewhere in the file you were probably given."

"It was. But why are you talking to me about this?" Napoleon looked back at the Rover, where Jacob and Jeeves were examining the engine. "Why would you take the chance on revealing yourself, particularly about something like that? You had no idea how I might react."

"When one chap looks at another chap with that particular sort of look on his face, well... I didn't think you'd be overly upset with the idea."

"I'm not that way," Napoleon said, feeling an unreasoning edge of panic, wanting to deny everything, to not have to change the core of his being. "I've been married. I date women." It couldn't have been that obvious. How could he have been so blindingly stupid as to give himself away?

Bertie's eyes narrowed. "Aren't you? You can't possibly tell me you didn't realize you fancy Illya." He shook his head. "I've dated women, you know. Been engaged to a ludicrous number of them. Was even engaged to three of them at the same time, once. I hadn't asked even one of them." Bertie sighed. "It just rather tends to happen to me."

"So I've noted," Napoleon said, hoping for a diversionary tactic. "I just don't get it. Why do they chase you like that?"

Bertie shrugged. "I've no idea. It's always been that way." He started to walk again, limping uncomfortably, and Napoleon kept pace with him, supporting part of the tall, slender man's weight. "What I'm trying to say, Napoleon, is that sometimes the gals are just a smokescreen. They certainly were for me for many years. Maybe they're hiding you from yourself, young man. There _are_ chaps who are perfectly happy to canoodle with both, of course. You're probably one of those; I never was." He looked into Napoleon's eyes. "You may think you don't fancy Illya, but everything you do gives you away." The panic expanded in Napoleon's chest. "No, no," Bertie said, squeezing his arm to reassure him. "I don't mean to any old bird or beazel on the street, my boy. I mean, it's obvious to someone like this Wooster; I'm quite familiar with the particulars of chaps who fancy chaps and what those c.s who fancy c.s have to do to stay outside of a prison cell."

"I can't," Napoleon said, quiet. The idea of approaching Illya about it -- whatever 'it' turned out to be -- unnerved him far more than facing a whole THRUSH satrap single-handed.

"Pish tosh, Napoleon." Bertie waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Have you seen the way that pretty young thing looks at you?" Napoleon was too stunned to reply. "No, of course you haven't, or I wouldn't have to be telling you any of this."

"But..." Illya? He couldn't be serious.

Bertie threw him an incredulous look. "Really, Napoleon, anyone who actually knows what to look for can see you're besotted with one another."

Napoleon swallowed and tried again, his mind running in a thousand directions. "Bertie, he's not -- I've never --" He stuttered to a halt. What the hell was he about to tell the man?

They stopped again and Bertie faced him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, my boy. I'm not doing this very well, I suppose. I know it's harder with another chap. You see all around you what everyone expects between a man and a woman, but no one tells you anything about what it's like if it's two of the same rather than one of each." Napoleon nodded. He was starting to feel like he might have been run over by a truck. Or dropped down a rabbit hole. "It wasn't easy for us, either, really," Bertie said. "I was utterly terrified that Reg would leave me if I ever said anything to him, that he'd think I was one of those horrid chaps who takes advantage of the staff, and he was equally convinced I'd sack him if he so much as hinted that he fancied me. Reg once told me some Russian bloke said that lying to ourselves is more deeply stuck down in us than lying to others, and lord knows we both did enough lying to ourselves about what we felt in those days. But, I mean to say, how could I not be thoroughly head over heels for him?" He glanced toward Jeeves, who was bent over and reaching into the engine compartment of the Rover. "The man's perfect." Bertie looked down at the ground and let his hand fall from Napoleon's shoulder. "Unlike me. I've always been a few fillings shy of a sandwich, don't you know. We wasted three years," he said, and Napoleon could hear the regret in his voice. "Three years of trying to avoid looking at each other a bit too long, or touching each other in a too-familiar way, or saying the wrong thing, and it took nearly getting both of us killed before we leapt that particular crevasse."

Looking at them now, Napoleon could hardly believe it. "Seriously?"

"Of course, it was considerably complicated by the fact that he works for me. You must understand just how much more dangerous it made the whole thingummy for both of us. Even bringing it up could have shattered what we _did_ have; we were happy just being in the same room, you see. Neither of us wanted to lose that. It would have been awful."

"I can imagine." Napoleon was the senior agent in their partnership; he was the top enforcement officer in North America. He was responsible for Illya; he gave the orders, he made the decisions, and he couldn't abuse that position. And Waverly? Napoleon didn't even want to think about what the old man would do.

Bertie looked off into the distance, away from the Rover, silent for a long moment. "There were so many things we were both afraid of, you see. What people would say if they found out. Being arrested. Our reputations destroyed, our families disgraced. Losing everything." He looked back to Napoleon again. "Of course, wrapping the old Aston around a tree one winter afternoon and ending up in hospital does tend to rearrange one's priorities."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We were on the way back to the metrop from my Aunt Dahlia's place just after New Year. It was snowing and the road was too slick. I wasn't driving very fast, but there was ice under the snow that I couldn't see. A curve and a hill, ice, and a tree. It was awful. Reg tells me I was unconscious for almost fifteen minutes, and he was sure I was dying. It was one of the very few times I've ever seen tears in the man's eyes. He just doesn't do that, you see. Tears would think quite seriously, then turn tail and flee, before they'd invade the Jeevesian e.

So I'd broken an arm and taken a nasty clout to the head. He'd broken three ribs and put a hole in his lung and nearly ended up perishing of pneumonia before it was all over. When I woke in the car, I wasn't terribly coherent and said things I hadn't ever meant to, but at that point I thought we were both about to biff off for the pearly gates, so what did I have to lose? At any rate, by the time some young lad came by with a larger, sturdier car and hauled us off to hospital, we'd realized what bleeding idiots we'd been and that the feelings were entirely mutual." Bertie shivered. "The next few weeks were hell, Napoleon. I thought he was going to die and that, even though we'd confessed the mutual pash, we'd never have a chance for... well, for anything, really."

"I'm sorry," Napoleon said, subdued.

Bertie waved his words off with a hand. "Well, obviously, things got better, didn't they?" He smiled. "The point is, one never knows. And you boys are in a very dangerous profession with what I understand is a rather short life expectancy. I just don't want to see you waste whatever time you have."

Napoleon thought about it for a few minutes, thoroughly disoriented by the conversation. There were so many reasons not to say or do anything about it. He hated the feeling of not knowing his own mind, or his heart. The lack of control he felt in that moment was profoundly disturbing. "I don't know if I can," he said.

"I'll admit, it's hard," Bertie said. "While I have friends now who are like me, or who just don't care one way or the other, I lost nearly everyone when the press got hold of it. I only have a very few friends left from that time. My family abandoned me. Reg... he lost everyone. Everyone. He loved his family and not a one of them would speak a word to him after we left England. It broke his heart. The only reason my cousins Claude and Eustace will have anything to do with me is because Eustace is as much of a nance as I am, and they still refuse to tell Claude's family. Eustace was never lucky enough to find anyone to stick with him like I had. Even with that, I wasn't sure Eustace wouldn't disown me too, to protect himself from any accusations. A few of my friends who were like me, they did just that, you see. Nobody knew, and they couldn't take the chance that they'd be thought guilty by association." Napoleon could hear a frozen core of anger and hurt in the words; he could understand those feelings. He wondered what would happen if anyone found out that he felt this way for Illya. What did he stand to lose? Maybe too much.

"You had an immense fortune to fall back on. That had to have softened the blow a bit." He knew as the words left his mouth that he shouldn't have said it; he'd been too shaken by how Bertie had seen through him. Napoleon wished he could take them back. Normally, he'd be suave and calm and charming. Right now, he was thoroughly out of his depth and it was showing.

Bertie glared and snapped, "I'd have lost every shilling during the war if Reg hadn't been the one managing it. That obscenity broke any number of fortunes. But none of that would matter in the least if I'd lost _him_. Money's worthless if no one loves you. I'd rather be penniless, I'd rather sleep in the dirt in a mud hut for the rest of my life, than be without him."

Napoleon believed every word Bertie had just said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He covered his face with one hand for a moment, shaking his head, and sighed. "I don't really know what I meant. I just... how did you know what the two of you had was going to work out? How could you trust that?" He supposed he was really asking if it would be worth it for him to approach Illya at all, if he'd be left with nothing but regrets. He'd never been so uncertain of anything in his life. He had no idea anymore what he really was, and that -- well, that was a little bit terrifying.

"There was no way to know without diving into it. We might have ended up hurting one another or being horribly wrong for each other. There's never a way to know, young man, not for any of us. Even if you do take the chance, even if he does say yes -- and I think he will -- things might not work out. People die. People leave each other. People change their minds." He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in the heat. "Someday, I'll lose him," he said softly. "Reg is getting old -- we both are. I don't know what I'll do without him." Bertie sounded lost and afraid, looking back toward Jeeves as if to reassure himself of the man's continued existence.

Napoleon reached out and took Bertie's hand where it rested on his arm. He could understand the fear Bertie was feeling; he shared it, worrying about Illya when things went bad on a mission. They'd both nearly died more than once since they'd been partners. "Neither of you are in poor health. You're both coping with this whole mess incredibly well. I've been impressed, to be honest. I'm sure you'll have many more years together. We'll get you back to New York and you'll both be fine, I promise." He squeezed Bertie's hand and let go. Bertie unfolded, seeming a little steadier at the gesture.

Their eyes met again. "I love him, Napoleon, more than you can possibly understand. I've loved him for most of my life. And I think you love Illya. You should give yourselves a chance. You'll never know unless you take that risk. You're good at risk, young man; it's what you do for a living."

Napoleon looked up at the open blue sky above them, taking a deep breath to settle himself. The sun was brilliant, nearly blinding. He had no idea what to do. He had no idea if he actually had the kind of bravery it had taken for Bertie to do what he'd done. He'd never thought of himself as a coward before. "I... I need to think about it," he said. "I've never seen myself this way before, never really thought about... well, about men before. Not enough to consider doing anything about it." He looked back at Bertie's face, lined with years and laughter and sorrow. "I'm not even sure where to start."

Bertie nodded, starting back toward the Rover. "It's all right, you know. You're an intelligent chap. I'm sure you'll figure it out. And if you ever need to talk, I'd be pleased to listen."

"Thank you."

Bertie smiled. "You said you were going to try your radio?"

"Right." Napoleon pulled his pen communicator out of his pocket and readied it. "Open Channel D, please." There was a pause, and a broken signal, but the interference was nearly gone now that they'd come around the mountain. "Open Channel D."

"Channel D is open. Agent Solo?" The woman's voice was heavily accented.

Napoleon grinned. "Nairobi?"

"This is Miss Wangai, in the Nairobi office. Where are you? New York has been a bit out of sorts since you disappeared, and every office on the continent has been listening for your signal. Are you and Mr Kuryakin all right?"

"We're in one piece, as are our guests. Mr Kuryakin will require a doctor, but it's not an emergency. We're currently on the road on the Tanzania side of the border near Namanga, maybe a hundred twenty miles out of Nairobi. We're having a bit of engine trouble, but from the looks of things," he cast a glance back at the Rover, where Jacob and Jeeves seemed to have things well in hand, "we should be moving again soon. If you would contact the border crossing, it might help smooth the way, considering we don't have entry or exit visas for either Tanzania or Kenya. We will need to file a report about a suspected THRUSH installation on the southwestern slope of Kilimanjaro, which has most likely been the source of the interference that's been jamming our attempts to contact you; I'll have details for your bureau chief when we arrive. I have some written information from the man who encountered them, and we have one of the locals who can offer further information, as well."

"Excellent news, Mr Solo! We shall contact the border and ease your crossing."

"Please relay the information to New York and assure them that we still have the affair in hand, Miss Wangai." He sighed heavily, relieved to have finally been able to report their situation.

"I shall do that, Mr Solo. We will be expecting you late this afternoon."

"Solo out." He closed up the communicator.

Bertie stood with him, grinning broadly. "Well," he said, "that sounds like just the stuff for the troops!"

"Let's head back to the Rover, shall we?"

***

The road got better as they approached the border. Not that the road was paved, of course, but it was at least less pitted and miserable than the Tanzanian interior. Illya was desperately relieved, as it had become considerably easier on his cracked rib as the road improved. Napoleon was strangely silent and preoccupied as they traveled, not bothering with any of his usual repartee, even when Illya attempted to engage him. Given his fever and his headache, Illya didn't persist in attempting to draw his friend out, but just leaned against him, trying to rest. Napoleon seemed uneasy, but it wasn't the familiar uneasiness of a man going into an ambush or anticipating an enemy's attack. Without data, Illya could only guess as to what might be going on and he didn't have the mental energy to formulate a theory.

Much to Illya's surprise, the border crossing was as close to painless as any African border crossing could possibly be. Napoleon had obviously been able to contact Nairobi, and visas were already awaiting them when they arrived. Jacob had not been named in the visas, but the border guards had been prepared to have them cross with a Tanzanian in their company.

The trip from Namanga to the capitol was considerably less effort than the rest of the trip, with the roads improving steadily until they reached actual pavement closer to the city. Bertie grew both more excited and more relieved as they drew closer to civilization; he was very like a small child in his enthusiasm for a bath, a European style meal, and a real bed. Their first sight of the Nairobi skyline had him in a state that Illya was prepared to swear was nigh unto ecstasy.

Jeeves relaxed slightly as they entered the city, seeming to finally be convinced that an end to the worst of their adventure was near. If anything, Bertie's delight and relief appeared to be reassuring him. It was a strange thought, because Illya had initially been convinced that the man was not emotionally affected by much but, upon close observation, he usually seemed to subtly reflect Bertie's moods. He was projecting almost subliminal cues; Bertie could read them clearly but they were opaque to Illya. Jeeves was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and it intrigued him intensely. There had to be a human being under the mask; Illya had seen brief flashes of him throughout the time they had spent together.

It was a relief to report into the African Bureau office, though they spent several hours there. Illya and Bertie were both seen by doctors, and Illya was given an immense injection of antibiotics to deal with the infection that had been spreading through his system. Unfortunately, the antibiotics left him feeling fairly queasy on top of the dizziness and headache that the fever had generated. Bertie was through with his examination quickly, as both his stitches and his knee had been improving since he'd been injured -- most of his aches and stiffness were the result of the jolting ride through Tanzania -- and there had been no complications. Illya was ordered to rest after dinner, a prescription he would be only too glad to fill. He was also given a handful of penicillin pills that he was ordered to take as a follow-up to the injection. Given the alternative, he decided that he would comply. The fever was unlikely to subside for several hours, at least, but there would be ample time for sleep before their flight the next day. He had no doubt he'd be feeling considerably better in the morning.

Jacob was interviewed and released to attend to his business, the written report from Chief Mkwan'hembo's village was turned in, complete with rough sketched maps of the ravine's location on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, and Illya and Napoleon were both thoroughly questioned about what they had been told about the THRUSH installation. By the time everyone was done, it was dinner time and all four of them were exhausted.

Considering what they had been through in the past few days, though mostly as a concession to Bertie's title, the Nairobi office put them up at the New Stanley; they only got one suite for the four of them. It was an expensive hotel, after all. At least the suite was a penthouse, and they could sleep in separate bedrooms at last; there was a single large bed in each of the two rooms. Illya was silently pleased at that. There was a sitting room and a private bath in the suite, both of which pleased Bertie a great deal. The view of Nairobi at night from the suite's balcony outside the sitting room was superlative. The arrangement would allow Illya and Napoleon to respond instantly if any trouble arose, though Illya doubted that THRUSH had located them again as yet. They may well have believed them dead in the downed jet.

They would not be flying out until mid-afternoon the next day, their transferring destination Paris. That would leave them time to get new clothing to replace what had been lost or destroyed. Jeeves seemed nearly gleeful beneath his stoic exterior. Illya knew he desperately wanted to get Bertie into some 'proper' clothing again. He'd been stiff as a board about the outfit Bertie had been given by the chief, and the hat in particular displeased him to the point of occasional incinerating glares. Jeeves did note that they would not have time for a tailor, but would have to settle for something off the rack. This cast a distinct pall over his well-concealed glee, but on balance, it seemed a far better option than what Bertie was currently wearing.

Dinner was room service, which suited Illya perfectly. Napoleon had somehow managed to find both time to get a new suit before dinner -- borrowed from one of the local agents, Illya suspected -- and a dinner date with a Miss Wangai from communications. It annoyed Illya greatly, and he wondered if Napoleon would return before dawn. Given that they were still in the middle of the affair, he'd better, Illya thought.

Napoleon's date seemed to surprise Bertie, though he said nothing about it. The man's face and demeanor were considerably more open than his valet's and it was, for the most part, much easier to tell what Bertie was thinking. Illya was aware that Bertie was indeed capable of a good deal of concealment and deception if necessary, but that seemed primarily focused upon keeping himself and Jeeves safe rather than being indicative of a dishonest disposition. On the contrary, Bertie seemed almost aggressively open with his emotions and opinions on every other topic that crossed his mind. It was that openness that made what he did conceal so much more effective.

Once they had eaten, Jeeves ran a bath for Bertie, who stated that he would be done when he'd finally turned into a prune. "I have days of mud hut and lions to scrape off," he said. After attending to Bertie, and asking if Illya required anything, Jeeves went out to the balcony to gaze out over the city. Illya sat in a comfortable chair and watched him lean on the railing, tall and silent, his shoulders bent with the weight of the past several days. Jeeves was still for a long time before he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Some of the stone stiffness went out of him as he exhaled.

Illya wondered if he might be able to talk to the man, to find out something about him beyond the bare facts of his file. Quietly, he joined Jeeves and leaned against the railing next to him. Jeeves didn't react, simply continuing to look out over the city for several minutes. Eventually, Illya asked, "Have you ever been to Nairobi before?"

Jeeves shook his head. "No, Mr Kuryakin. Lord Yaxley's trips to Africa have been solely to visit his cousins. He is disinclined to travel outside of his usual orbit."

"What do you think of it?"

"While I cannot recommend our method of arrival, sir, I must admit I am enjoying the view." Illya could hear a molecule of dry humor in the statement. He chuckled. Jeeves reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his cigarette case, opening it and offering Illya a cigarette. There was a line of engraving on the inside of the lid.

"No, thank you. I do not smoke." Jeeves turned his head to look at Illya and nodded, taking a cigarette himself. "What is the quote?"

"It is a line from Shakespeare, sir," Jeeves said, angling the case into the light so that Illya could read it. The line spoke of love and smoke.

Illya's head tilted and he looked up into Jeeves's eyes. "It was from him, wasn't it."

Jeeves paused for a moment, evaluating, before he nodded. "Yes."

"It is all right," Illya said. "I was aware of your relationship."

"I had suspected as much. I presume you were informed when you were briefed on your assignment, Mr Kuryakin."

Nodding, Illya sighed. "May I ask a few questions?"

One of Jeeves's eyebrows rose and Illya felt like he was being x-rayed. "I should not mind, sir." He put the cigarette case back into his pocket and lit his cigarette, blowing the smoke out over the city.

"Aside from the fact that it allows you to live under his roof without suspicion, why would you do such work? You are an incredibly resourceful and capable man. Why are you a servant?" Illya simply could not conceive of why someone so intelligent and talented would want to follow another man about, cooking and cleaning for him, drawing his bath, helping him put his clothes on. It seemed a thorough waste. It was certainly an illustration of the worst excesses of capitalist decadence.

Jeeves pondered for a moment, obviously weighing his words. "If I might speak freely, sir?"

"Why should you not?" Even the question was absurd.

Jeeves took a deep drag on his cigarette and let it out, watching Illya as he spoke. "Mr Kuryakin, some twenty five years ago I abandoned the idea that anyone would understand. My profession is a dying one, I know that. Yet, it has been said that, deprived of meaningful work, men and women lose their reason for existence; they go stark, raving mad."

Illya blinked. "Dostoevsky?"

"I have always been an admirer of the great Russians."

"I see." The man was like a _matryoshka_ ; there always seemed to be something else inside. Fascinating.

"I enjoy what I do, Mr Kuryakin. I take great pride and satisfaction my work. I would do so even if I were not working for him." He puffed again, looking out over the city's lights. "I find fulfillment in a well-ordered home, in cooking, in the variety of my tasks, in seeing that my gentleman's needs are met. Despite what you might believe in looking at my life, I have a great deal of autonomy and responsibility, and you must remember that when I was a young man, service was still considered an honorable occupation. When it is freely chosen, such a thing can be a distinct pleasure." He looked at Illya again. "I know without doubt that I am needed, that what I do has meaning."

Illya considered the words. It was not a thing he thought he could ever find meaning in, true, but Jeeves obviously felt he had found his place in life. He seemed content with his lot, perhaps even happy, though it was hard to tell when the man did not actually smile. "If I had not been informed of the nature of your relationship with Bertie, I would not have known. You both seem incredibly careful to protect one another. How was it you were found out at all?" It was a thing that had been puzzling him since he'd met the men.

"That was not in the file?" Jeeves's voice barely changed, but he seemed surprised. Illya shook his head. Jeeves was silent again for several minutes, but Illya assumed that he was deciding what to say. Then, his shoulders straightened. "In late 1939, after the incident at Mr Göring's residence, one of Lord Yaxley's childhood friends -- a pilot with the RAF -- was shot down behind German lines. This gentleman shared certain proclivities with Lord Yaxley and, in fact, had been one of his first paramours."

Illya shivered. He could see where this was going. "I'm sorry."

"When the Germans discovered this information, it was leaked to British Intelligence and to the press. Lord Yaxley was, at the time, a very prominent and extremely popular member of the aristocracy. Although he has never been particularly political, he had the ear of many powerful members of the House of Lords, and of others in the government." Jeeves crushed the cigarette out on the railing and flicked it over the edge, staring down into the street below. "He was warned before the scandal broke, Mr Kuryakin. He informed me of what happened in very few words and told me that I could choose my fate. I could stay with him and face exile and disgrace, or I could leave him, repudiate him, and remain in England. Unlike Lord Yaxley, no charges were ever filed against me, nor was any warrant issued for my arrest. My reputation at the time was such that I would have easily been able to avoid being charged with gross indecency and continued my life there with an equivalent position in another household." He looked back up at Illya. "Naturally, there was only one choice I could make. There was no time for preparation, for the police were on their way to the flat. We left England with the clothes on our backs and the contents of Lord Yaxley's safe."

"I do not think you ever regretted it," Illya said. The two seemed completely devoted to each other.

"Never," Jeeves said, emphatic, if understated. "Within two weeks of our flight from England, Lord Yaxley was approached by a man who turned out to be a German operative. Because of the disgrace, and the public and press reaction to the revelation, the Germans had anticipated that Lord Yaxley would wish to take revenge on those who had abandoned and condemned him. They hoped that he would offer information about the men who had once been his friends." There was an unmistakable flash in Jeeves's eyes and a hint of fierce pride in his voice. "Lord Yaxley is a man with an unshakable sense of honor. Nothing would induce him to betray his country."

"And you continued, as he said, to provide intelligence during and after the war."

Jeeves nodded. "Over the years, we have occasionally come upon individuals whom we recognized as Nazis that had escaped justice after the war. I am pleased to say that several of these individuals are no longer, as they say, in circulation."

Illya looked up at Jeeves, astonished. He could not help but regard both Bertie and Jeeves with a profound respect. "And you still cannot go home."

"No," Jeeves whispered; Illya could almost feel a wave of sorrow emanating from the man, though his face and posture had barely shifted. "The law is quite specific regarding men such as ourselves," he said, making a rough, quiet sound that might have been a rueful chuckle. "We are immoral, evil, and degenerate. At best, we are mentally ill. Our mere presence contaminates polite society."

"Yet you chose to follow him." The love it had to have taken to do such a thing was beyond Illya's understanding. The very idea of it left a pang of longing in him.

"Mr Kuryakin, Bertram is the only man who has ever genuinely seen me. He is the only one who has ever cared to look."

That stunned him. "I find that incomprehensible," Illya said. "You are a remarkable man. How could anyone not see that?"

"A servant, if he is efficient and doing his job correctly, is invisible unless he is needed, and unobtrusive then. The profession suits me. I prefer to operate subtly, in the background. Fewer questions are asked that way." There was a bit of a glint in the man's eye.

Illya shook his head and laughed. "Now that, I can appreciate. My own specialty is a bit more physical, but you seem to hold your own there, as well. I will admit I was quite surprised that you knew your way around a parachute."

"I did not expect to require that knowledge again at my age, sir."

"Napoleon and I were quite grateful that you had it. Getting both of you to safety would have been... awkward under the circumstances otherwise." Nearly impossible, but they would have tried. He had no doubt that there would have been more injuries involved. But there was something else on Illya's mind. He turned and leaned back against the railing, looking at their reflection, and the mirrored lights of the city, in the glass doors of the suite. "I would like to... Please, if you would not find it too intrusive, what is it like?"

Jeeves tilted an eyebrow at him. "Sir?"

"Having someone who cares that much for you," Illya clarified, hesitant. "There are moments when... No, I'm sorry. I should not have asked." Such an intensely private man, he was sure Jeeves would resent the question.

Instead, the man's face softened and he smiled. It wasn't a large smile, but it was genuine, almost shy, and it seemed to light his face. "Love is a teacher, but one must know how to acquire it, for it is difficult to acquire, it is dearly bought, by long work over a long time, for one ought to love not for a chance moment but for all time," Jeeves said, quoting Dostoevsky again. "He taught me what it truly means to love another. I cannot express to you the joy he has given me."

"Was it always that way?" He'd said 'dearly bought' - there must have been work involved. Their personalities were so very different, there must have been conflicts.

Jeeves sighed, a barely discernable sound. "No." He looked out over the city again. "You must understand, Mr Kuryakin, that we are both very proud, willful, stubborn men. We have certainly had our arguments, over more than just his execrable taste in clothing." At that, Illya chuckled. Jeeves turned his head to look at him again. "I left him once."

Illya straightened and turned to face Jeeves. "You left him?" He could not help the astonishment in his voice. It must have been quite the fight.

With a nod, Jeeves continued. "It was a petty argument, meaningless in retrospect," he said, rueful. "We both allowed our pride to overcome our good sense and I left to work for one of his many friends." Jeeves paused for a moment then actually snorted. "I remained angry with him for two days. By that time he had, coincidentally, taken a seaside cottage in the same village, bringing with him the man he had hired as my professional replacement." The precisely chosen words were quite clear in their meaning. "The man was a drunkard and completely unworthy to polish his shoes," Jeeves said, and Illya could almost hear a growl in his voice.

"Obviously you were able to settle the argument."

"We were parted for only a week. During that time, he was pursued by that knife-wielding drunkard across the countryside, kidnapped by an angry American millionaire, had his cottage burnt down, was forced to sleep in a shed for several nights, and punched in the face by the gentleman whose employ I had entered. I was myself threatened with violence by the American for having liberated Bertram from his yacht and was forced to disarm the gentleman lest he carry out his threat."

Illya boggled at the litany of bizarre misfortunes. "That is..."

"One might come to the conclusion that having one's airplane hijacked was simply another average day in our lives. One might be correct." Jeeves sounded almost amused.

"What finally happened?"

"I was allowed to save face in leaving Lord Chuffnell's employ when he decided to marry the American's daughter. It was my stated policy never to work for a married gentleman. I was thus freed from my employment." He paused for a moment. "I immediately went to Bertram and asked him to allow me to return to him. During the course of that week, I realized how vital he had become to my happiness and how foolish we had both been in allowing a minor, if vociferous, disagreement to come between us." He pursed his lips and then shook his head. "I was miserable without him," he admitted softly. "My dignity has never been worth losing him."

It was a striking statement, coming from a man who seemed the very personification of dignity. "That is an astonishing story," Illya said.

"He tells it much better than I," Jeeves said, one corner of his lips quirking upward fondly.

Illya smiled. "I have heard some of his stories, so I must, sadly, presume that you are correct. He's really very funny."

Jeeves nodded. "And I am certain he is nearly asleep in the bath, so I must go and extract him." He straightened, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. "Mr Kuryakin, thank you."

"Hm? For what?" Asking nosy questions wasn't anything worth being thanked for.

"In the forty two years that we have been together in that sense, there have been a number of individuals who have had occasion to discern the nature of our relationship for one reason or another. In all that time, and of all those people, you are one of only two who did not insult me by asking if I was with Bertram for his money."

Illya's eyes widened. He blinked. "I... I will admit than when I initially read your file, I had wondered, but upon meeting you it was obvious that such a thing was not possible. You are most definitely not a man who could ever be bought."

"Indeed, sir." Jeeves nodded. "In return, Mr Kuryakin, I shall offer you a word of advice from the works of Dostoevsky. He wrote, 'much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.' I should strongly suggest, sir, that you _not_ leave certain things unsaid." He offered Illya a slight bow, turned, and wafted smoothly through the sitting room toward the bathroom, leaving Illya alone on the balcony, stunned, in his wake.

***

Bertie was, indeed, half asleep when Jeeves entered the _salle de bain_ to help him prepare for bed. "Bertram," he murmured, as he closed the door behind him.

Blinking up at him, Bertie smiled. "How are you even still on your feet right now, Reg?"

"I will come to bed with you as soon as I have had a shower," he replied. He offered Bertie a hand to rise, and a dry towel. Bertie rubbed at his hair with it briskly as Jeeves bent to drain the tub. "I had a most curious conversation with Mr Kuryakin on the balcony."

"Oh?" Bertie's voice was muffled by the cloth as he dried his face and neck, then worked his way down. "Do tell."

"He inquired about us," Jeeves said, wrapping his arms around Bertie as his lover finished drying himself. The past several days had been both harrowing and far too long, and he was tired; he had slept the previous night, but the ground had been uncomfortable and he was aching badly. Holding Bertie was comforting and Jeeves pressed soft kisses to his neck. He smelled clean and warm and his damp skin tasted slightly of soap. "I had expected it at some point, I will admit."

Bertie returned the embrace, just holding him, the towel dangling from one hand. "Did you actually talk to him, then? I know how you are about things like that."

"I believed it might be illustrative for him," Jeeves answered. "He is intelligent enough to draw his own conclusions."

"Hmm." Bertie ran a hand through Jeeves's hair, mussing it. "I'm sure you're right. I did talk to Napoleon this afternoon while we were walking."

"I had surmised." Jeeves let Bertie go and wrapped him in one of the white dressing gowns provided by the hotel. It was clean and soft and would suffice for the moment. "I do not think he was quite ready for it, if I may say so."

Bertie sighed. "He did rather look like I'd biffed him with a flounder, didn't he? I wish there was more I could do, old thing."

"Come, Bertram. Let's get you to bed. We can speak of this later. Both of us are exhausted and I feel utterly filthy after two days without running water. I'm really quite disgusting." He had already notified the hotel staff that his suit would require cleaning and a bit of mending overnight so that he could wear it again tomorrow. He would leave it hanging on the doorknob outside the suite as he made his way to the bedroom so that it could be picked up. Once that was accomplished, it would do until they could get back to New York, but it was currently far too vile to wear again.

"Right ho." Bertie leaned in and kissed him, a gentle peck on the lips. "I'm ready for a real bed."

They passed through the sitting room and Kuryakin was still standing out on the balcony, staring out at the city. Jeeves suspected he would not truly rest until Solo returned. It was the work of a moment to put Bertie in his pyjamas and tuck him between the sheets, caressing his cheek before Jeeves returned to the bathroom for his own shower. He stayed in the shower much longer than he normally would, letting the hot water pound into his shoulders and back once he was clean, trying to take some of the ache and stiffness out of them. The water had started to cool before he decided he really should get out.

Bertie was, unexpectedly, still awake when Jeeves finally crawled into bed next to him. "You should be sleeping, love," he murmured. He rolled onto his side and took Bertie into his arms, pulling him close until they were pressed together along the length of their bodies.

"Wanted to wait for you," Bertie said, his voice quiet in the darkness. "We haven't had a single bit of privacy in an age." His hand trailed down Jeeves's back to his bottom and rested there. "I may be tired, but I'm not dead, you know."

Jeeves sighed, wanting his lover very much, but he was honestly just not up to the task. "I am truly sorry, Bertram, I can't." He kissed Bertie quite thoroughly as an apology and a promise for later. "I wish I could but I just haven't anything at all left tonight."

"Then let me take care of you," Bertie whispered, wriggling down the bed under the covers and tugging at the trousers of Jeeves's pyjamas. A moment later, he was sucking Jeeves's cock, his mouth warm and sweet and entirely too sensually delightful to resist. Jeeves rolled onto his back and sighed, tangling his fingers in Bertie's hair as he relaxed and let Bertie have his devilishly pleasurable way with him. It was difficult to be quiet enough, with Kuryakin in the next room, but he restrained himself sufficiently as Bertie slowly, deliciously brought him to a state of ecstasy.

It took everything Jeeves had not to simply drop into slumber as soon as he came off, but he did make the effort to take Bertie into his arms and kiss him again before he slipped away. It was only right, after all. As soon as he was properly rested and they had sufficient privacy, he would most certainly repay his lover with interest.

***

Illya sat staring out the window of the commercial jet from Nairobi to Paris. He was absolutely not brooding. Napoleon sat in the aisle seat next to him, oddly uneasy and strangely unflirtatious when the stewardesses came by. Bertie and Jeeves were in the seats behind them, quiet and resting, both of them dressed in elegant new suits bought that morning; Bertie had insisted that Jeeves get new clothing as well, rather than wait until they got to New York. Bertie had provided both him and Napoleon with new clothing too, given the state their own was in. They were all safe for the moment, as far as Illya was able to determine.

Napoleon had returned to the hotel suite a little before midnight, smelling of perfume and sex. It was, Illya had to admit, rather early for one of Napoleon's conquests, but he'd been feeling stung about being left alone to guard their charges while he was supposed to be resting on doctors' orders. It wasn't like Napoleon to be quite so thoughtless. When he confronted him about it, Napoleon noted that there were three other UNCLE agents outside the suite and Illya had never actually been alone. "I was aware of that but that is not the point," Illya snapped at him, before dropping himself into bed.

Napoleon had joined him to sleep, after showering the lingering scent of the woman from his body, but he lay on the far side of the bed facing away from him. They woke tangled together again, both of them hard and vaguely embarrassed, leaving Illya even more confused than before. He'd been contemplating Jeeves's parting shot from the night before ever since.

North Africa stretched out under him in the late afternoon; it was a nine hour flight and, if all went well, he would have nothing at all to do but think and perhaps catch up on his sleep. He was feeling considerably better at least, and his fever had finally broken for good during the night, but his cracked rib was still quite painful.

He knew Jeeves had been giving him a pointed message about Napoleon. The man was positively uncanny. In the past couple of hours, Illya had come to the conclusion that Napoleon's uneasiness was very likely related to the tension between them that was only growing more intense and awkward as their mission continued. Although he was quite firmly aware of the fact that he wanted Napoleon, he had to wonder if Napoleon was beginning to discover something similar in himself. It would explain rather a lot of what had been going on. Bewilderment certainly seemed an apt descriptor for some of Napoleon's recent behavior. The obvious answer, given Jeeves's advice, was to talk to Napoleon about it, but he really hadn't the first idea of how to approach his partner. Radical revisions of one's self-image tended to be very disorienting and could be hard on one's immediate companions, particularly if the revision in question was not a welcome one.

Napoleon shifted restlessly in his seat, then rose and went to the water-closet. He was gone for perhaps ten minutes and was, if anything, slightly more restless when he returned. He hadn't met Illya's eyes once since they'd awakened wrapped around one another.

Frustrated, Illya finally said, "Napoleon, why don't you just tell me what is bothering you?" He lay a hand on Napoleon's arm to emphasize his point, knowing it might not be the most intelligent thing to do. Napoleon went still for a moment. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at Illya.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

At least he was talking. "Why not?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Napoleon managed to keep a straight face as he attempted a deflection.

"Be serious."

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak but closed it again without saying anything. The troubled look on his face returned. "Illya, I really don't think you want to hear it."

"Well, I won't know unless you tell me, now, will I?" He glowered at his partner.

Taking a deep breath, Napoleon closed his eyes and sighed, tense. "Look, I just don't think this is a very good place to have the conversation."

"So now you admit there is a conversation to have."

Napoleon's eyes snapped open. "Illya--"

"Napoleon, please." His hand tightened on Napoleon's arm.

Reaching up slowly, Napoleon covered Illya's hand with his own. He looked around, making certain that no one was paying attention to them. "At least if I tell you here, you're unlikely to shoot me. Cabin depressurization can be such an inconvenience."

"Once in a week is more than enough," Illya said, and waited for his partner to continue.

Napoleon tensed, swallowed. "It's just that lately, I've... I've been having these thoughts."

"About?"

After a slight hesitation, Napoleon spoke again. "You." He wouldn't meet Illya's eyes.

"What about me?" Illya asked, his voice soft and steadier than he felt. Maybe Jeeves was right. Maybe something really was happening here.

"I... no. Illya." He looked up, his deep brown eyes meeting Illya's, nervous. "You're my best friend. You're the best partner I've ever had. I don't want to risk that."

Illya's chest tightened. It really did sound like this might be what he had hoped. "I do not believe anything you could say right now would change that."

"This might."

Illya shook his head. "Napoleon. No."

Napoleon watched him, as if anticipating a negative reaction. When he spoke, it was soft and difficult to hear over the white noise of the plane. "I've been thinking about them." His head moved in a short, slight gesture that served to indicate Bertie and Jeeves. "What they are. What they have."

Illya could feel the slight curve of his lips as an involuntary smile touched them. He let his thumb move on Napoleon's arm, a slow and deliberate caress. Napoleon's eyes widened. "And?"

"Illya." It was barely more than the motion of Napoleon's lips.

If they had not been in public, surrounded by at least half a dozen people who might see them, Illya would have leaned in and kissed him. Instead, he said, "Tell me."

"I can't stop thinking of you. Like that."

The smile he'd tried to restrain broadened. "I can assure you, Napoleon, that the feeling is decidedly mutual."

Napoleon was obviously shaken by the words, staring at Illya for several moments before he spoke again. "I... I have no idea what to do."

Illya chuckled slightly. "Here? Nothing. In Paris? I can think of a few things." He grinned.

"No, Illya, I mean I have no idea what it means. What it makes me. This... it isn't like anything else." There was a raw uncertainty in him that was entirely unfamiliar.

"Don't worry, Napoleon. It's not as different as you think. Trust me." They could navigate whatever was going on in Napoleon's head, Illya was sure of it. They just needed the chance. It was obviously not something that could be resolved here, on the plane, but they were scheduled to arrive in Paris at about two in the morning. There would be hours before they would board the plane to New York the next evening, and they would spend several of those in a safehouse with Bertie and Jeeves. Illya suspected the two of them would be more than wiling to allow him and Napoleon a little privacy for a discussion and some necessary demonstrations. "Later, we will discuss this. There is nothing further we can really do or say right now. Brooding over it is useless."

Napoleon's frame relaxed slightly, though he still looked a bit lost. "You're right about that, at least."

"Of course I am right. Order a drink, Napoleon, and relax."

Napoleon shook his head and gave Illya's hand a squeeze before letting go. He flagged down a stewardess and ordered a gin and tonic. Now all Illya had to do was wait.

That was going to be torture.

***

The unease had been a cold, hard lump in the pit of his stomach for the remainder of the flight. Napoleon's thoughts were still a whirl of confusion and tension, fueled by images of himself and Illya that he couldn't shake. Thankfully, the arrival in Paris and their trip to the safehouse was entirely uneventful. Of course, the two a.m. arrival time could have had something to do with that. Even THRUSH had to sleep sometimes. Certainly Bertie and Jeeves were tired and slightly groggy during the drive from the airport.

Once the older men were in bed -- without pretense this time, because that particular cat was out of the bag -- Napoleon and Illya faced each other in the quiet common room between the two bedrooms they had been given. If Illya were a woman, he'd know what to do. There would be kisses and soft words and hands in very stimulating places.

Illya was most definitely not a woman. And Napoleon was not a queer. He wasn't in the least flouncy or limp-wristed. Then again, Jeeves didn't flounce either, but he obviously loved Bertie enough to kill or die for him. They'd been lovers for forty two years and most of the people around them had no idea. So what did it mean to actually be queer? To want a man the way he had always wanted women? To love another man?

God, he _wanted_ Illya.

"Napoleon, you are thinking far too much." Illya was suddenly much closer, looking up at him with those incredible cobalt eyes. His hand was in Napoleon's hair, firm and strong, pulling him down into a kiss.

The kiss was a revelation: hot, rough, demanding. Napoleon threw himself into it, breathless and half-desperate, tugging Illya to him as the pleasure of that hard, solid body against his own left him stunned and aching. It was nothing at all like kissing a woman. There was nothing soft about Illya. His face was rough with stubble, his mouth unyielding, his tongue a demand for Napoleon's passion.

He could do this.

Forget questions about what it meant. Forget whether he'd still want women tomorrow. Forget whether it changed some fundamental part of him. This was good. It was fantastic and Illya's hands were on his back and groping his ass and tangling in his hair and it was _intense_. His cock was heavy and hot and pounding with the force of his frantic pulse and he felt hard as granite against Illya's body as they fought each other with lips and teeth and tongues. The need he felt, the desire, was blinding and he returned everything Illya was giving him, until Illya grunted and pulled his mouth away. "My rib," he panted.

Napoleon backed off slightly, giving Illya a little more breathing space without letting go of him. "Damn. Sorry, _tovarisch_ , it slipped my mind." Okay, so rough was fine, just not quite that rough. He could live with that.

Illya grinned. "You are no longer thinking too much."

"I'm thinking I need more than this." Napoleon returned his grin. He wasn't entirely certain what comprised 'more' but he had some very clear fantasties.

"That kind of thinking, I can live with." He grabbed Napoleon's tie at the knot and dragged him into the bedroom. Napoleon followed willingly, stumbling slightly as their legs tangled, his hands still on Illya's body. Illya shoved him down on the bed so hard that he bounced, and the bedframe squeaked. Part of Napoleon's brain told him that noise was a bad idea, but the rest of him drowned it out, too far gone to care.

Illya grabbed him by the hips, dragged his pants down, and took Napoleon's cock in his hand, giving it a firm stroke from tip to root. Napoleon shuddered and gasped. A moment later, he was in Illya's mouth. Women had sucked him off before and a few of them were even enthusiastic about it, but this was whole orders of magnitude better, sending sparks through Napoleon's nerves and leaving him breathless. Without thinking, he took Illya by the belt and hauled him up to where he could reach him. His hands fumbled with Illya's belt and the fly of his pants, but Illya just took him by the hair and pressed Napoleon's face into his crotch. The next thing he knew, he was nose to rather significant length with Illya's naked erection.

It stopped him for a moment, suddenly more real than he'd anticipated. He could smell the burn of Illya's arousal, could see the sheen of fluid smeared along the head of his hard, thick cock. It sent a fierce jolt of desire through him that, combined with Illya's mouth working him and Illya's hands on his ass and in his hair, nearly sent him over the edge. He ducked his head down and sucked Illya in.

Illya groaned around his cock and Napoleon shivered, groaning in response. His entire being responded with a visceral _yes_ to the feel of Illya in his mouth, on his tongue, slipping between his lips. His hands slid inside Illya's pants, finding bare skin under the layers of cloth, and he filled his palms with skin and hard gluteal muscle, fingers skimming between firm, round cheeks as he pulled Illya into him, both of them sucking and licking and groaning at the feel of it. Suddenly, it was all too much for him. His body jerked as he came, with Illya taking everything, his fingers tightening painfully in Napoleon's hair as he pushed himself further into Napoleon's mouth.

A moment later, Illya let Napoleon's cock slip from his mouth and thrust hard, grunting wordlessly, leaving Napoleon sputtering at the unexpected flood. He backed away before he choked on it, coughing and spitting as he gasped for breath.

"Sorry," Illya said, as Napoleon rolled onto his back, still panting. "I didn't have time to warn you."

Napoleon shook his head. "No, no, it's okay. It's not like I've never tasted my own, I just... I wasn't expecting it, that's all." He wiped his mouth on the bedspread as Illya shifted then turned himself up to look into Napoleon's eyes. "I'm sure I'll be better at it next time."

Illya gave him a fierce grin. "I see. I thought you were quite good this time, you know."

Under other circumstances, the comment might have had him preening. Instead, he needed to know something. He reached over and caressed Illya's rough cheek, running his fingers up into the long, blond hair. "So, what does this mean? Where do we go from here?"

Illya's grin faded and he sighed. He lay back and pulled Napoleon atop him, avoiding the cracked rib. His arms slipped around Napoleon's waist. "You enjoyed this?"

Napoleon nodded. "It... I..." He took a deep breath and started over. "Having you in my mouth was like something critical falling into place. It was amazing, Illya. It was like nothing else, ever."

The response lightened Illya's eyes. "And you do not regret this at all? You said 'next time.'"

"No. No regrets at all." He looked away from Illya for a moment, over at the bedside lamp. "I want this, but... what the hell are we going to do?"

Illya's hands framed his face and pulled his gaze back to meet his eyes. He kissed Napoleon with a surprising tenderness. "Whatever becomes necessary."

"What if Waverly finds out?"

"He probably will at some point. He did not get where he is through ignorance or blindness."

Napoleon held Illya in his arms, nuzzled his neck. "Do you think this can work? You and me?"

"It would not be easy," Illya admitted.

He thought of the men in the other room. "Forty two years," he murmured.

"They worked very hard for that," Illya said. "The odds were not in their favor. They gave up everything to stay together." He paused, hesitant for the first time. "I do not know if we could do that, or even if we should."

The effort it had taken for Bertie and Jeeves to stay together, the scandal and the disgrace, the years of hiding, the public denials; Napoleon had no idea how they had endured. Yet they were happy together. After all that time, they were still in love, even if they could never show anyone what they meant to each other. Even if Bertie had to watch the man he loved be treated as nothing but a faceless servant; even if Jeeves had to see people dismiss Bertie as dim and watch women throw themselves at him without any encouragement. They had never given up, despite everything. Did he and Illya really deserve less? "We'll never know unless we try, will we, _moi droog_?"

Illya chuckled and shook his head. "You realize that if you plan on giving up women, people will talk. I would really suggest you not do so. It would make things much more difficult."

That wasn't an aspect he had considered. If he'd proposed anything like this to a woman, there would have been a demand for exclusivity and he'd subconsciously been expecting it from Illya. Napoleon realized he wasn't sure how to respond. "Really? It wouldn't cause problems for us?"

Illya's left eyebrow rose. "When has it ever caused problems before? Aside, of course, from those times when you have jeopardized the mission because you could not keep it in your pants. It's not like they mean anything to you." Illya paused. "Well, there was that woman in Terbuf..."

Napoleon's head thudded onto the pillow beside Illya's. "That was over years ago, Illya. She's married."

"And you still love her."

He raised his head and looked at Illya. "And I think I love you."

Illya froze beneath him, eyes slightly widened. "Do not say what you do not mean," he breathed, his voice grave and shaking slightly.

"I do mean it," Napoleon said, putting all his conviction into his voice as he held Illya's eyes with his own.

Illya's face twisted into a frown. "That's terribly sudden, Napoleon."

"No." Napoleon shook his head. "Being around them may have opened my eyes, but the feelings have been there for a long time now." He thought back to all the times they had saved each other's lives, had silently worried about each other, had spent time together away from work, had gone back for each other when anyone else would have given them up for dead, had sought one another out when they needed a drink or to talk or just to be silent with someone. They laughed together, ate together, touched one another freely and comfortably. He could see Illya weighing the same things, his heartbeat fluttering visibly at his throat. Napoleon tilted his head down and kissed him there, just over the thin skin that covered that hot, moving pulse. Illya groaned and wrapped Napoleon in his arms, tangling their legs together. He drew his head up and kissed Illya again, taking his mouth slow and deep, trying to convince his partner of what he felt, of that swelling heat in his chest and the nearly unfathomable emotion that threatened to drown him. Finally, panting, he pulled away slightly, his lips still touching Illya's. "Believe me, Illya," he whispered, urgent. "Please."

Breathless, Illya murmured, "I believe you."

***

Bertie was feeling just a bit smuggish at breakfast, seeing how the previous tension between their two young guardians had shattered sometime during the night. The way they looked at one another had changed; less of the hungry wolves and more of the yearning hearts united. He felt quite justified in his chuffed state and told Jeeves so the moment the young men were out of earshot.

"And you said you didn't think Napoleon was ready," he said, smirking.

Even Jeeves looked just a bit pleased about the edges. "It appears I was incorrect."

"A red-letter day, Reg. How often are you wrong?" Bertie chuckled, taking his lover's hand and giving it a bit of a squeeze.

Jeeves sighed. "More often than I should ever care to admit, Bertram. You know that as well as I do."

"Well, I'm just glad they've decided to take a chance on one another. I can think of very little worse than a lost opportunity for happiness."

"I concur," Jeeves said, straightening Bertie's tie with an expert hand. Jeeves's tie-straightening skills were second to none, and Bertie was delighted to appreciate said t.-s. s.'s at every opportunity, particularly since it involved that expert hand upon his chest and Jeeves's face close enough to his for an application of the lips to the Jeevesian dial. Which lips Bertie promptly applied, kissing a smile onto Jeeves's entirely irresistible mouth.

"We should not," Jeeves murmured, his lips still brushing lightly against Bertie's.

"Pish tosh, Reg. Firstly, those young men already know. Secondly, they don't care. And thirdly -- well, all right, there isn't a thirdly. But if there was, I'd be listing it here."

Jeeves chuckled. "I do love you," he whispered, kissing Bertie again, one soft touch of his lips before he let go of Bertie's tie and stepped away to examine his handiwork. He gave a tiny, approving nod and brushed down Bertie's lapels, making certain everything was in order and that Bertie looked his best, even if it wasn't a proper bespoke suit, and just something they'd grabbed in a shop in Nairobi. "I believe you now meet the required standard," Jeeves added.

"You could muss me up again," Bertie offered, grinning.

The disapproving look Jeeves turned on him was more than enough, but his words stung. "I think not, sir."

Bertie did not pout. Instead, he tilted his chin up and said, "Well, then, what's on our agenda for today?"

"We are in need of more cigarettes, Bertram. You smoked the last one last night." Jeeves's eyes lightened a bit. "It would be most pleasant to spend the morning at the _Musee d'Orsay_ , if our guardians believe it would be safe. We did not have time for the new exhibit last time we came through the city and I would very much like to see it."

"Hmm. I suppose I'd be willing. The old knee isn't at its best yet, but I think if I pick up a cane, I should be able to hobble about with the best of them. They do have benches to sit on, don't they?"

"Of course, Bertram."

"And after luncheon?" Bertie pondered some of the things he enjoyed about the city. "I think maybe finding a café would be nice. After all that African savannah, I wouldn't mind seeing a bit of city street life while sipping a bit of coffee. I'm in desperate need of a little noise and civilization."

Jeeves nodded. "I shall speak to Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin and inquire as to their preferences. They may not wish to have us spend a great deal of time in public."

Bertie looked up as the two named chaps came back into the room. "No need, old thing. Napoleon, what do you think about the _Musee d'Orsay_ this morning and a café after lunch?"

The two agents looked at one another, then back at Bertie. "The museum should be all right. I'm less sanguine about spending time on the street. We don't know if THRUSH has located us again and I'd like to minimize your exposure."

"Well then, what do you suggest between lunch and dinner, young man?" Bertie asked tartly, feeling like a cat whose goldfish had slipped through its claws and was now blowing bubbles at him from the far side of the aquarium. "I mean to say, I haven't been to Paris in a while and I'd rather like to actually see a bit of it while I'm here."

"Bertram," Jeeves said, a distinct hint of disapproval in his voice. "If they believe we are not safe, then we should certainly follow their advice. I have no wish to see you shot again." He glared down at Bertie's leg, reminding him -- unnecessarily, Bertie thought -- of the stitches in his thigh. "That said," he added, now sounding slightly conciliatory as he looked up to meet Bertie's eyes, "we could most likely have dinner safely at Maxim's this evening, should you wish."

Bertie perked at that, but Napoleon said, "I'm afraid our expense account isn't up to the challenge, gentlemen. We've already destroyed a Learjet on this mission. Accounting would have our heads if we tried to pass off a meal at Maxim's too."

"Nonsense." Bertie raised a dismissive hand. "I'll pay for it. There's no need for you chaps to worry. You've taken quite good care of us so far, and we've all had to endure being dropped into the middle of nowhere for days on end. A return to civilization requires a celebration, what?"

"I see no objections, Napoleon," Illya said, eyeing Napoleon hopefully.

Napoleon grinned. "Who am I to turn down such a generous offer?"

And so they got a cane for Bertie and spent a few hours at the museum with Jeeves solemnly appreciating art, as was his wont, while Bertie chattered about whatever came to mind, and Napoleon and Illya kept watch over them. Lunch was delightful and exceedingly tasty, reminding Bertie of some of dear old Anatole's lesser efforts. After that, a rather boring afternoon was spent reading back at the safehouse, though upon reflection, Bertie realized that he still hadn't quite got all his energy back. He found himself quite grateful for the rest and the quiet, particularly given that he could read curled up against Jeeves as he would at home, instead of in a chair across the room from him as they would have had to do had their relationship not been known. All in all, relatively pleasant, entirely stationary, and delightfully un-dangerous.

The sidewalk outside Maxim's, however, proved to be more dreadful than hand grenades at ten paces when Bertie spied a frighteningly familiar face. "Oh, God, no," he groaned, grabbing for Jeeves's hand as he tried to turn around and make a dash for shelter. Any shelter. A manhole or gutter drain would have done. Sadly, it was too late.

"Bertie?" Her eyes were still of the huge, watery blue variety, though her hair was now mostly white. She wore a painfully fashionable dress draped on her tiny frame.

"Madeline," Bertie said, trying desperately not to whimper. He hadn't seen her in decades and he knew she was well aware of why he'd left London. The two young agents looked at him, then over at her and back at Bertie again. Napoleon had a look of utter disbelief on his face. Even Illya looked vaguely alarmed.

Madeline Bassett had long ago married Roderick Spode, the Earl of Sidcup, and Bertie had thought himself well shut of the woman, but Spode had died about a decade back and, to the best of his knowledge, Madeline had never remarried. The look in her eyes was utterly terrifying. "Oh, Bertie!" Her lower lip trembled slightly. "After all these years, you came looking for me? How... how desperately sweet you are!" She still had the same slight lisp to her voice. Bertie hoped she'd got over the whole soppy bunny-rabbits and God's daisy chain business in all the intervening years, but he was entertaining entire Roman legions of doubts.

"What ho, Madeline." He backed up, running into the solid wall of Jeeves's chest before he could make an effective escape.

"And who are these handsome young gentlemen with you?" she asked. "I was just going into Maxim's for dinner; you must join me, I insist." She looked for a moment like she might sniffle, but refrained. "I so want to make things right for you, Bertie."

"Erm, right?" Bertie braced himself, feeling rather like he'd been rammed amidships by an iceberg. He followed Madeline into the restaurant as he introduced his companions. "You remember Jeeves, of course. This is Napoleon Solo, and this chap here is Illya Kuryakin. They're, well, acting as our bodyguards at the moment," he explained, hoping that the fact he actually needed a couple of bodyguards might discourage her. "Napoleon, Illya, this is Madeline Spode, Lady Sidcup. She's an old friend of mine." He wasn't sure 'friend' was quite the right word. Plague was probably closer to the truth, and the gleam in her eye was giving him cold sweats.

"A pleasure, Lady Sidcup," Napoleon said, taking her hand and kissing it gallantly. She giggled like a schoolgirl. Illya just nodded to her.

Madeline walked up to the _maître d'_ and he nodded to her in that superior way the Parisians had. "Albert, a table for four, please."

"What? No, Madeline. Jeeves is dining with us." He wasn't going to stand for her trying to shuffle him off to dinner elsewhere, no matter what she might say. "I'm not sending him away. You know why." He was quite firm about it and could feel Jeeves behind him, standing taller because of it.

She looked Jeeves up and down, as one might glance at some substandard bit of equipment. "All right, then. Five," she sniffed, obviously not wanting to make a scene, but quite put out at the idea. Bertie hated having to subject his lover to the whole thing.

"Of course, Madame Sidcup. This way, _s'il vous plaît_. I have your usual table." Albert looked down his nose at the agents and Jeeves, obviously having assessed them as being of lesser status. They followed him through the restaurant to a secluded table near the back, where an extra place was quickly set to provide service for everyone. Napoleon sat facing the main door, while Illya faced toward the kitchen of the restaurant, just in case a waiter decided to ambush them with something. Exploding fillet of sole, perhaps, or something-or-other _flambé_. Bertie sat between Madeline and Jeeves, wishing like the dickens he could be anywhere else and dreading the conversation he knew was coming.

"Oh, Bertie," Madeline said as they sat. She reached out to him and took his hand. "I am so sorry, Bertie. The wrong I did you all those years ago is unforgivable." There was a hint of a shimmer in her e.s and Bertie shivered with an unnameable dread.

Before he could say anything, the waiter arrived. On any other night, it would have taken a whole bloody hour for the chap to get there, but tonight they must have put something in the water, because he was right at Bertie's elbow with menus and the wine list. Bertie was desperately glad to have something other than Madeline to deal with, and they spent the next twenty minutes deciding on dinner and drinks, with Jeeves making quiet but terribly tasteful suggestions, which Bertie regarded as very likely the best combinations possible.

Finally, orders taken, he couldn't avoid her any longer. "You've always been such a hopeless romantic, Bertie," Madeline said, shaking her head. "That you would finally come to Paris for me, after all these years and everything that's happened -- I can hardly believe it."

"I don't believe it myself," Bertie said, despairing. "Really, Madeline, I'm on my way to New York. My plane leaves tonight, and I'll be heading for the airport shortly after dinner."

"I should never have turned you down, Bertie. I know that I broke your heart. I know it's my fault that... that you're..." She looked at Jeeves and sniffled, brushing a tear from one blue eye. "Oh, Bertie!"

"It's all right, Maddie, really. I'm fine, you know. I'm really very happy with my life." He looked at Jeeves, desperate for support and reassurance. Jeeves took his hand under the table and Bertie smiled at him. "I honestly don't regret what happened."

"So brave," she simpered. "You've tried so hard to carry on, I know. I want to set this right, Bertie. I can't see you suffer any longer. My dear Bertie, I'll marry you and then you can lay all this to rest; you don't have to resort to the... the company of..." She looked at Jeeves again, distaste blooming on her face. "Dearest Bertie, you can be cured of that horrid bending of your soul. The love of a good woman is what you have always needed, I know it."

Bertie's eyes widened, his heart clipping up to a desperate gallop. "No! Madeline, really, please! I'm not -- I mean to say, I don't need to be cured. Honestly! I'm perfectly happy with Reggie, you must believe me!"

She shook her head as Napoleon and Illya stared at them in something resembling shock. Bertie wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Jeeves's hand tightened about his own. They both knew Madeline would never listen to him, so he didn't bother to speak. Bertie would have to do this on his own and he knew it. "Bertie," she said softly, "I'm so very dreadfully sorry about the scandal. I'm sorry I rejected you. Had I known to what lengths that heartbreak would drive you, I would have married you thirty eight years ago."

Bertie buried his face in one hand as the wine and the first course arrived. "Madeline, please, no," he whispered. "You don't understand."

"Hush, Bertie. I know you can't believe that, after all these years, I would finally be able to give myself to you wholeheartedly, but it's true. Your sweet, tender soul will finally find its balm. I know you must have so much to say, but we should wait until after dinner. You need time to think things over. I know you'll be so much happier when we're finally together, and you've put -- " she glanced up at Jeeves again, "-- your valet away. You don't need that kind of company anymore, my dearest bunny snowdrop."

Had there not been a plate of soup directly in front of Bertie, he'd have slammed his head on the table. Surely it would hurt less than listening to Madeline's insane babble. "L-let's just eat, shall we?" Bertie offered, his voice wavering. Maybe by the time they'd finished, he'd have thought of something to save himself that didn't involve THRUSH agents storming the place and blowing it up.

Jeeves's hand moved to his thigh, rubbing gently along the top of his leg in a slow, soothing motion. "It will be all right, Bertram," he murmured into Bertie's ear. "She cannot marry you against your will. You are stronger than you were when last you faced her."

Bertie nodded. With a sigh, he let go of Jeeves's hand so they could both eat.

Getting through dinner left Bertie wishing for the joys of the Spanish Inquisition. Every bite was dust in his mouth, and Madeline prattled on about how they would finally be happy together and how Bertie would leave his perversions behind and restore his family's good name. She'd moved to Paris after Spode had died and started up a fashion design house, apparently inspired by her late husband's lingerie fetish, which had finally turned out to be good for something, Bertie supposed. Madeline assumed Bertie would move to Paris to be with her, even though he told her that he was quite at home in Rio and owned flats in Monte Carlo and San Francisco and New York that he found more than adequate for his needs. She ignored him soundly, as she always had, assuming he was just being 'brave' and denying his presumably undying obsession with her.

Napoleon and Illya were shooting him terribly sympathetic looks all through the meal and he felt awful for subjecting them to this particular ignominy. If he'd had any idea Madeline was within ten miles of the place where they were going to have dinner, he'd have stayed in the bally safehouse. Anything to avoid this abject humiliation. At least Jeeves knew that Bertie's heart belonged entirely to him. They'd faced this sort of blind idiocy from the woman for so many years when they were young that there was no question Jeeves would find some way to spirit him out of this the moment the bill was paid. He hated to hurt a gal's feelings, but this was entirely beyond the pale. Even the Code of the Woosters didn't cover this sort of insanity.

***

Illya sat listening in disbelief as this Lady Sidcup creature babbled absolute madness at Bertie. He had never seen anything quite like it in his entire life, and hoped never to see anything similar again. The poor man had honestly tried to explain to her that he loved Jeeves and was happy with him, but she was like an elderly bulldozer. Nothing he said made any difference to her. It was like she was living inside a completely impenetrable bubble of her very own reality that had nothing to do with anything the rest of them could see. No matter what he and Napoleon might face as lovers, it would never be anything like this.

He suddenly found himself feeling incredibly sorry for Bertie. He'd obviously had to deal with years of this sort of thing when he was young and he looked lost and desperate. Even Jeeves didn't seem able to help him; the woman treated Jeeves like he was beneath contempt. Illya could see a simmering anger under the man's stoic mask. He would not blame Jeeves in the least if he had simply reached over Bertie and strangled the woman. Illya was quite tempted to do so himself, just to put an end to Bertie's agony.

When the meal was finally, blessedly over, Lady Sidcup followed them out of the restaurant, still prattling at Bertie with plans for a wedding, and Bertie simply sighed and limped along next to Jeeves, looking like a condemned man being walked out to the firing squad. They made it a block before Bertie turned to her, his frustration grown too much to bear. "Madeline," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "Please, for the love of God, listen to me."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Yes, Bertie dearest?"

"Madeline, I cannot marry you."

"Of course you can. I know it must be difficult to believe, that all your years of waiting are finally at an end, but it is true."

He stood in front of her and looked her in the eyes. "I love Reginald Jeeves." He pointed at Jeeves. "I love _him_ , Madeline. I've loved him for _years_."

"You don't have to lie to yourself any longer, Bertie. It must be awful to have to tell yourself such things." She looked at him with a disturbing amount of pity in her face.

Bertie's entire being seemed to sag. He shook his head hopelessly and turned, moving away from her to walk next to Jeeves again. "We have a plane to catch, old thing," Bertie said, looking over at Jeeves.

"Indeed, sir."

They hadn't gone more than three feet before Napoleon's head turned, sharp and sudden. "Take cover!" he shouted, going for his pistol.

Illya drew his gun, moving toward the two older men, but Jeeves was already moving, reaching for his own pistol and pivoting to put himself between Bertie and the gunmen who had suddenly appeared out of the crowd. He swept Bertie behind him with one arm as the first shot was fired. Illya could hear Lady Sidcup's scream as Jeeves folded, crumpled, and dropped to the sidewalk with a cry of pain.

Bertie froze for a moment as Napoleon opened fire, his eyes huge and terrified. He screamed, "No! Reggie, no!" as he dropped his cane and started toward his fallen lover, but Illya could see one of the assassins drawing up on him. He threw himself onto Bertie, tackling him to the ground behind a small blue Citroën parked at the curb as bullets tore through the air, far too close to his head. They hit the pavement with a painful thud, Bertie still shouting, fighting him with all his strength. The man was absolutely blind to everything but Jeeves, lying exposed on the sidewalk as Napoleon continued to fire. Illya could hear bullets hitting the car and Lady Sidcup screaming near them, but keeping Bertie alive was now his first priority, and the man was not cooperating.

He would not have thought Bertie was particularly strong, but the tall, wiry man had adrenaline and horror fueling his movements and Illya could not keep him down. He looked up at Lady Sidcup. "Help me, damn it!" he shouted. "Do you want to see him shot?"

To her credit, the woman finally decided to listen, and joined Illya on top of Bertie, bearing him down to the sidewalk again as he screamed and fought to get to his lover. It was taking everything Illya had just to keep him behind cover, while Napoleon kept firing. Out of the corner of one eye, Illya could see Jeeves lift his head and look around, then scrabble painfully toward them along the sidewalk as Napoleon ducked and tried to cover Jeeves's retreat.

Bertie was inconsolable as he fought against Illya and Lady Sidcup, finally getting an arm out far enough to grab Jeeves by the shoulder and drag him bodily behind the Citroën with them, shouting his lover's name all the while. Once Jeeves was under cover, Illya let Bertie go, spinning and kneeling to aim over the hood of the small car. He fired at one of the THRUSH men, dropping him, as Napoleon leapt for the cover of the next car over.

"No, no, no, no," Bertie moaned, pulling Jeeves to him desperately. Jeeves was panting, his eyes tight, obviously in pain, though there was surprisingly little blood that Illya could see from where he leaned against the car.

Through the chaos and the screams of the parting crowd of pedestrians, Illya heard Jeeves groan, "I am too bloody old for this." Now that they didn't have to worry about Bertie getting into the line of fire, Illya and Napoleon dispatched the other two gunmen quickly. A moment later, he knelt next to Bertie and Jeeves, who were curled on the sidewalk together, clinging to one another, pale and shaking.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," Jeeves was saying, as Bertie dissolved into sobs. "Bertie, I'm all right." He held Bertie, one hand in his hair, the other wrapped around his waist.

"You're not all right, you're shot!" Bertie wailed, as Lady Sidcup sat on the sidewalk next to them, staring at them in shock.

"Please, Bertie, calm down," Jeeves said, "I'm all right." The man was still shaking, but he held Bertie close in trembling arms.

Bertie shook his head, tears running down his face as he clung to Jeeves. "How many damned times have I told you not to get between me and bullets!" he shouted. "What in bloody hell did you think you were doing?"

Jeeves unfolded a little, moving carefully, detached one of Bertie's arms from around his chest, and reached into his breast pocket. He drew out his cigarette case, now bent and mangled, a flattened lead slug embedded in it. "Bertie, this time you got between me and the bullet," he said quietly, showing the bloodied metal to his frantic lover.

The sight caused something in Bertie to snap, and his shouting stopped. He buried his face in Jeeves's shoulder, just clinging to him and sobbing without any restraint. Jeeves gently wrapped his arm back around Bertie, the case dangling between his fingers, and they held one another, saying nothing, as several policemen came running up.

Napoleon offered his UNCLE identification, explaining things as Illya caught his breath. Lady Sidcup finally blinked and started crying quietly. "Oh, Bertie," she whispered.

At last calmed enough to catch his breath, though tears still streamed down his face, Bertie said, "I'm taking you to hospital and we are going to be absolutely certain you're not going to die on me. I will not hear an argument, do you understand?"

Jeeves nodded. "Yes, Bertram." He kissed Bertie softly, wiping away some of his tears with one thumb as he did so. "I would like to assure us both that I have not broken any ribs." That started a fresh round of crying from Bertie, who had obviously had to deal with more than enough in the past week and had entirely given up on even trying to hold himself together.

It took about fifteen minutes for them to get an ambulance to the scene. During that time, Illya and Napoleon both talked with the police, giving an abbreviated explanation of the events and making certain that the THRUSH operatives were collected and hauled away. Napoleon reported into the Paris office on his pen communicator while Illya turned his attention back to Bertie and Jeeves, and the woman who still sat staring at them on the sidewalk.

Lady Sidcup insisted upon going to the hospital with them and sat with Bertie, holding his hand while Jeeves was being seen. Illya and Napoleon stayed nearby, wanting only to make sure that she wasn't going to overwhelm Bertie even further.

She waited several minutes before she spoke, as Bertie stared bleakly at the emergency room doors where Jeeves had been taken. "Bertie," she said softly. She moved her hand from his and up to his shoulder.

He looked over at her. "Yes?"

"Bertie, I don't understand."

He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled as he spoke. "Madeline, I have no idea how I can possibly explain this to you. You've never in my life listened to a single word I've ever said."

Lady Sidcup sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "You asked me to marry you, Bertie. You loved me. You spent years pining for me."

"No," he said, his voice hollow. "I've been all but married to Reg since 1924, Madeline, and I was in love with him before that."

Her breath caught. "1924?"

Bertie nodded.

"But... but Bertie, you didn't even ask me to marry you until '28." The confusion in her voice was mingled with hurt.

With a sigh, Bertie said, "I wasn't proposing to you. I was just trying to plead Gussie's case. He'd asked me to talk to you and you totally misinterpreted the whole thingummy."

"Misin... Bertie... do you mean to say you don't love me?" Her eyes filled with tears.

He looked up at her, his face filled with absolute misery. "No, Madeline, I'm sorry," he whispered. "You never once asked me if I did, you just assumed you knew what I meant."

"Never?" she squeaked.

"I was in love with Reggie. I'm sorry, old thing. I tried for years to tell you that I was all right, that I was happy for you."

"But... but Bertie, you were engaged to me three times." With each question, the woman's confusion deepened.

"I tried to tell you," he said again, "but you would never hear me, and I couldn't very well tell anyone that I was in love with another man. It wouldn't have been kind to tell you right out that I didn't love you, you see. Code of the Woosters and all that. One can't break a young girl's heart, Madeline. It's just not on." He looked completely drained and utterly hopeless. "I'm sorry. I-I never loved you, Maddie. I couldn't. I never loved any of the women who tried to marry me, even the very few I did actually propose to." He shivered. "I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone, or to lead anyone on. You have no idea what it's like, to be like this. I tried to be normal, you know, before I met Reg. I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I could do it, but I just wasn't put together to fall in love with a woman."

"Oh, Bertie." She sniffled again. "You must have struggled with so much pain. You've had so many misfortunes because of the scandal. You lost everything." Her eyes closed. "And all these years, I thought it was my fault, that when I rejected you, you turned to him."

Bertie stared back at the double doors, obviously trying to will Jeeves to walk back out of them. "Madeline, nothing you or anyone else did made me this way. I just am. It's not your fault. Reggie and I have a good life together. We've been happy, Maddie, and I would have married him ages ago if I only could have. I'd have told everyone, if it wasn't that we'd both end up in prison."

"You found your soul-mate, and he turned out to be your valet." She shook her head. "It's so achingly romantic. How nobly you have suffered for your love." Illya wasn't sure if he was going to gag or if he would just end up clubbing the woman like a baby seal. A glance at Napoleon revealed an expression that suggested he was thinking the same thing.

"Lady Sidcup," Napoleon said. "I hate to interrupt, but once Jeeves is cleared by the doctor, we have to leave for our plane. We're due in New York in the morning." They still had to stop back at the safehouse and pick up Jeeves's valise.

She looked up at him. "Mr Solo, are you sure they'll be all right?" She glanced at Bertie and looked back at Napoleon.

Napoleon nodded. "Our job is to keep them in one piece. I can promise you, it will be considerably easier if we don't also have to worry about your safety."

Lady Sidcup turned to Bertie again. She hesitated for a moment, then threw her arms around Bertie and wrapped him in a smothering, sniffly hug. "I'm so sorry, Bertie. I'm sorry for my blindness and for misunderstanding everything so very badly."

"It's all right, Madeline," Bertie whispered, patting her back awkwardly. "Just, please, take yourself home where you won't be in danger. If you had been hurt because of me, I'd feel absolutely awful. That's the third time this week that someone has tried to kill or kidnap us, and it's just too much of a risk for you to be here."

She nodded. "Good luck, Bertie," she said, and placed a soft kiss on his damp cheek. "I hope... I hope that your Jeeves will be all right. I've been so very unfair to both of you."

"Thank you," he replied. "I'm sorry about your husband's death, Maddie. I can imagine how awful it must have been." After what he'd been through today, Illya was quite certain Bertie could. "Please take care of yourself."

Nodding, Lady Sidcup rose. "I will, Bertie. Thank you. I'm... I'm so very sorry for all the pain I've caused you over the years." With that, she turned and walked away, Bertie staring after her, exhaustion written plainly in every angle of his body.

***

He hadn't hurt so much in years. The doctor told him that he had no broken ribs, but there was deep and extensive bruising from the bullet, as well as a rather nasty cut where the cigarette case had sliced through his clothing when it bent and broke from the impact of the slug. It hurt to breathe, and he was going to be quite tender for some time. Jeeves knew just how extraordinarily lucky he had been; had he not been carrying the case, he would likely be dead or fighting for his life right now, and he found himself more grateful for that long-ago gift than he had ever been before. Thank God Bertie was unharmed, he thought, and that _that woman_ was gone when he was finally released from the examination.

Bertie, still tearful, threw himself into Jeeves's arms when he appeared; Jeeves suppressed a flinch as his lover compressed his aching chest. "Bertie, love, I'm all right," Jeeves whispered, just holding Bertie close, feeling the warmth of him as his breath hitched and the heat of his tears damped the skin of Jeeves's cheek. Being Paris, no one cared that they were both men, and it was a relief not to have to hide in this moment, when they needed each other so desperately.

"Never do that again, Reggie, never," Bertie begged, his arms tightening around Jeeves.

The whole thing had shaken both of them badly, and Jeeves was still feeling somewhat unsteady. He nuzzled Bertie's hair. "I have no desire to ever again be placed in a position where it becomes necessary," he murmured. "Yet I will do it again if I must. You are far too important to me for me to ever allow you to come to harm."

"How do you think I felt, watching you lie there on the pavement?" Bertie's voice was rough and wet, a sharp shard of anger in it.

"Very much like I would have, had I watched you die." He had to be clear on that. Bertie had been carrying nothing that might have, even accidentally, shielded him from that bullet. Jeeves took Bertie's face between his hands. "I am sorry," he said softly, "but I did what had to be done, and I in no way regret it. As it is, we are both safe for the moment, and I have only a few cuts and bruises despite everything that has happened. It was a very small price to pay for your life. Once we have handed over the papers to the New York office, we will no longer be a target and we can go back to our quiet lives."

Napoleon's interruption was relatively gentle. "I'm sorry, but we do have a plane to catch. We need to go back to the safehouse and pick up your valise, then get to the airport."

Jeeves looked over at him and nodded. "Of course, Mr Solo." Turning back to Bertie, he said, "Please, Bertram. Let it go. There is much yet to do."

Sniffling and red-eyed, Bertie blinked back tears. He nodded and took a deep, bracing breath. "Right ho. Stiff upper lip and all that."

Jeeves smiled and kissed him. "Precisely, love."

***

It was quiet in the white noise of the transatlantic flight. Nearly everyone in the first class compartment around them was asleep, though there were a few lights on in seats here and there where people were reading or murmuring quietly to one another. Napoleon stared out the window into the starry darkness. Bertie and Jeeves were in the seats behind them, leaning against each other as they slept, and Napoleon was grateful for that fact. They'd had a truly awful day and both of them were exhausted; they'd fallen asleep shortly after takeoff.

Illya sighed.

"What is it, _tovarisch_?"

Stretching in his seat, Illya yawned. "I have been thinking," he said, when he settled again.

"About what?"

"How much trouble they have had because they could not tell anyone." Illya looked over at him. "Sometimes secrecy is not the best idea."

Napoleon tilted his head, looking at Illya. "Sometimes it's the only option."

"Napoleon, do you intend to continue what we started in Paris?" Illya's face was solemn, questioning.

He nodded. "Yes. Of course I do."

"Then I think we will have to tell Mr Waverly."

"What?" Napoleon sat up straight. "Illya, that would--"

"Prevent THRUSH or anyone else from blackmailing us if they found out," Illya finished.

"Oh, no," Napoleon answered, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? After we crashed a plane? He's not going to take that very well, I can tell you. We'll be out of a job five minutes later."

"We did not crash the plane, Napoleon. It was the THRUSH agent who jettisoned the fuel and blew the control panels. We had no choice. There was no chance at all that we could have brought it down safely."

"The whole thing is already dicey," Napoleon insisted, not wanting to stir up the flames. "Accounting is probably going to want to make us pay for the damned Learjet, you know. This is the worst possible time to tell him."

Illya laughed. "On the contrary, it is the best possible time, _moi droog_. He cannot dock our pay if he fires us, can he?"

Napoleon paused, one finger in the air, his mouth still open. He blinked. "Illya, that is diabolical. I love the way you think."

Illya's face opened in a wide grin. "I hope you love other things about me as well."

Echoing his partner's grin and giving it a lascivious spin, Napoleon replied, "I'm sure you can give me a long list of things I should love about you." He leaned back again, laying his hand on Illya's arm. "Seriously. Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"If we pursue this path, Napoleon, he will find out. It is only a question of when and how. We both know this. I think it is far better for us to control those variables."

"He's not going to like it." Napoleon didn't want to think about the trouble it might cause for both of them. "What if he splits us up?"

"Waverly has always been a fair man. I do not think he will split his best team if we do not give him cause. And I think it is obvious that the mere idea of such a relationship is not an issue for him. He was quite adamant that we treat Bertie and Jeeves as we would treat anyone else."

"True enough," Napoleon said. "I'm just wondering why I was the only one he asked about having a problem with it."

Illya sighed. "I believe he already knows about me."

Napoleon's brow wrinkled. "Are you sure?"

"No." Illya shook his head. "But there is a very good chance of it."

"And you want to make certain he does."

"Not particularly, but I believe it would be a far wiser option than allowing THRUSH or some other enemy to make that decision for us."

"Fair enough," Napoleon agreed. He scrubbed one palm over his face, not liking any of it. "You have a point. What happens if he does separate us, or if he wants to send you back to the Soviet Union?"

Illya's eyes closed for a moment, his face tightening. "If we are faced with those decisions, then we will discuss them. Knowing what the government at home would do to me if they were aware, I do not believe he would inform them of the real reason for my dismissal, at least. And if he does not send me back to the Soviet Union, there will be some way we can work this out." He tilted his head toward the men in the seats behind them. "They did, after all. If they could face all of that and," he cringed, "that insane woman we met this evening, then we are equally capable, if this is what we truly want." Illya placed his hand over Napoleon's on his arm. "I know what I want."

Napoleon knew that if Illya was sent back home as a known homosexual, he was likely to end up in a gulag somewhere, if they didn't just shoot him and dump him into an anonymous grave for being a potential threat. His party membership and his faithful service to his government would be meaningless. Illya was the one taking the greatest risk here. He owed his partner enough loyalty to stand with him and support him if he needed it. He loved him enough to run with him if they had to; Bertie and Jeeves had proved to him that it could be done, that they could still have a decent, meaningful life, even if it was a life in exile. He nodded. "All right. We'll tell him." He turned his hand beneath Illya's, twining their fingers together and squeezing. "Whatever happens, I'm with you."

***

Being back in New York was a relief. They were finally safely away from potential threats on the streets, their mission complete. Napoleon breathed a quiet sigh, able at last to let go of the worry he'd been fostering since they'd met Bertie and Jeeves. Bertie gazed around him in something akin to delighted wonder as they walked through the brightly lit corridors of UNCLE HQ toward Waverly's office. Jeeves shadowed him as usual; a dark, impassive presence. Illya was at Napoleon's side, looking confident and at ease as they approached the final stage of their mission -- all that would be left after this was the boring necessity of writing up their reports. And telling Waverly what had happened between them.

As the door slid open, Waverly rose from his desk. Bertie hurried forward with a huge smile on his face. "Alex, old thing! How are you? It's been an age!"

"Bertie, my boy!" Waverly met Bertie with a properly restrained embrace. Napoleon and Illya stared at them, flummoxed. He knew them? "I am delighted to see you've made it in one piece." After a pat or two on the back, Waverly turned to Jeeves. "And Reginald, so good to see you again."

Jeeves unbent enough to almost smile, offering a slight bow and shaking Waverly's hand. "Sir Alex. I will admit I am quite pleased to finally be here." His voice was warm and there was a trace of affection in it.

"Please, my dear chaps, do have a seat and let's see what all the fuss is about." Waverly gestured toward the chairs at his large, round table.

"I didn't realize you knew Mr Waverly," Napoleon said to Bertie as he took his seat next to Illya.

"Oh! Well!" Bertie settled into his chair, Jeeves by his side. "Alex here is the one who warned me that the police were coming for me. Arranged our passage out of England once we'd legged it, as well." He turned to Waverly. "You took quite the risk with your position there, old thing, and I can never thank you enough for that."

Waverly harrumphed, lighting his pipe. "Yes. Well." He gestured with the pipe stem once he'd taken a puff. "It was a horrible injustice and, after that incident with Göring, I knew you would be extremely useful to us. Prison was simply not on, dear boy, not on."

"Regardless of the reason, that word in my ear was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for us. I'll bless you for it to my dying day." Bertie sighed sadly. "I just... I've had a good life, Alex, don't mistake me, but I do dearly wish I could see London again someday, you know? I miss old blighty entirely too much."

Waverly nodded sympathetically, puffing on his pipe. "Don't give up hope, Bertie. Change is in the wind. Things back home aren't what they once were, you know."

Bertie gave him a doubtful look. "I do hope you're right, old thing. Even with that Arran chappie pushing things, I'll admit I have my doubts. Probably wouldn't be the same without ravening aunts and the Drones, anyway." Waverly chuckled and shook his head. Bertie reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded and battered manila envelope. "This is what that whole mess in Johannesburg was over." He dropped it on the table and Waverly spun the envelope toward himself. "I thought it looked rather like some sonic thingummy, part of a weapon maybe. Reg agreed with me." He paused for a moment. "Either that or it's part of a speaker for the world's largest stereophonic system," he said, doubtful, "but I didn't think that THRUSH was particularly interested in music, what?"

"Neither of us reads Japanese, sir, but the schematics were quite suggestive," Jeeves added.

Waverly unfolded the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper, opening them onto the desk. "Hrm, yes. Well. I do believe you're correct that it's a component for a sonic weapon, Bertie. It certainly fits with what we found last night in the raid on the Kilimanjaro THRUSH satrap." He looked over to Napoleon and Illya. "That operation, by the way, was a complete success thanks to the information you supplied. It was, indeed, the focus for the men and shipments moving through Quelimane. Well done."

Napoleon nodded. "Thank you, sir."

"See to it that these papers are sent to Section Four for analysis." Waverly spun them to Napoleon.

"Of course, sir."

The debriefing continued for over an hour, with all four of them adding information and details as Waverly asked questions and requested clarifications. Once the debriefing was over -- it included an invitation for Bertie and Jeeves to join Waverly and his wife for dinner that night -- the two civilians were sent home to their New York apartment.

"Sir, if I may, Illya and I have something further to discuss with you," Napoleon said, uneasy but determined to see the topic through. Illya sat next to him, hands folded on the table, wearing his best ice prince face.

Wavery sat back in his chair, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "About the mission?"

"No, sir, not directly," Napoleon said. He paused for a moment, gathering himself, as Waverly tilted an eyebrow at him. "During the course of the mission, sir, the... the status of my association with Illya changed."

"In what way, Agent Solo?" He sounded suspicious. Napoleon couldn't blame him.

Napoleon took a bracing breath. "We're lovers, sir."

Waverly harrumphed. Twice. "I wasn't aware you had such proclivities, Agent Solo." He sighed. "And you chose to tell me because?"

Illya shifted slightly in his seat. "We believed it would be better for you to hear it from us, sir, rather than have you learn through a blackmail attempt."

"I suppose you're right about that, Agent Kuryakin. This is a highly unusual situation, gentlemen." Waverly set his pipe down in his ashtray. "It should be obvious that I do not have a problem with such things in and of themselves. However, you are both field agents, and I have both the law and the organization as a whole to consider."

"Yes, sir." Napoleon waited. Illya sat silently beside him.

Waverly looked at Illya. "This was a particular risk for you, Agent Kuryakin."

"I am aware of that, sir." Illya nodded.

"You realize you have placed me in a very difficult position." Waverly leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. "I am now faced with deciding whether I should separate you, pull you from the field, or find some other way to deal with this situation. I dislike surprises, gentlemen."

"May I make a suggestion, sir?" Napoleon had been anticipating the dilemma and wanted to put in a word or two on his and Illya's fate before it was decided. Waverly gestured for him to continue, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. "Despite the change in our situation, sir, we were able to complete this affair without trouble. I don't believe it will significantly affect our performance in the field." Waverly waited patiently as Napoleon spoke. "You could temporarily allow things to continue as they are, and evaluate our work after our next missions. If you feel that the quality of our work has deteriorated, then it would be appropriate for you to separate us. But unless that happens, sir, I don't see a need to split your best team."

Waverly sat for a few moments, silent, contemplating them. Illya shifted uneasily next to Napoleon but they didn't look at one another. Finally, Waverly sighed again. He picked up his pipe, re-lit it, and took a few puffs. "There is some merit to that suggestion, Mr Solo. It will give me time to reflect on the situation, and for the two of you to settle into your new status a bit. That said, if I see any hint of this interfering with your work, I shall transfer one of you out of the New York office. I cannot afford to have you distracted in life and death situations, or where the mission itself takes priority over one or both of your lives. This organization cannot afford to place the personal affairs of individual agents over the mission as a whole. Are we clear on that, gentlemen?"

The tension in Napoleon's chest eased, and he and Illya both answered. "Yes, sir." "Of course, sir."

Waverly nodded. "And now, on a more personal note, I would like to wish you both good luck." Napoleon blinked, surprised yet again. "The path you have chosen is a terribly difficult one, as you must certainly be aware after having spent the last week with my friends. While I do believe things are changing, you have essentially condemned yourselves to a life of secrecy and great personal risk, considerably beyond that which you endure for your work. So long as it does not conflict with my responsibilities to the UNCLE, I will do what I can to protect you." He looked over at Illya. "I appreciate the risk you took in confirming what I had suspected, Agent Kuryakin. I shall not betray that confidence to your government unless it is absolutely unavoidable."

"I understand, sir. Thank you." Napoleon could see the relief in Illya's eyes as he spoke.

Tapping his finished pipe into his ashtray, Waverly nodded to them. "I shall expect your reports on my desk by tomorrow evening, as usual. You are dismissed."

Rising together, Napoleon and Illya left to deal with the aftermath of their decision.

***

"That... went better than I expected," Illya said, finding it difficult to believe their luck. He looked up at his partner, who looked nearly as stunned as Illya felt.

"I was honestly expecting one of us to get pulled from the field, at the very least," Napoleon answered. "I thought he'd put you back in the lab."

"So did I." While Illya did enjoy his lab work, he greatly preferred the field and its challenges, not to mention working with Napoleon. That this had not been taken from him had been an unexpected gift.

Napoleon grinned at him. "You know, partner mine, I think this calls for a celebration."

Illya returned the smile, pleased. He had a few plans he'd been hoping to put into motion. "You are not going to spend the night with Mindy, from Communications?"

"I told her something came up." Napoleon's grin turned wicked.

"I should say it has." Sadly, there was nothing to do about it just yet. Waverly would no doubt look askance at them shagging on a desk in their office, particularly after having just given them a reprieve from being split up. Given that the day was still young, they had several hours of time left at work, and they'd have to start on their reports after lunch and medical. He had already been wondering about food, and steered them toward the commissary, sandwiches on his mind. "Thank you," he said, "for not abandoning the idea."

"You know I'd never abandon you, Illya." One hand rested on Illya's shoulder for a moment, not long enough to be suspicious in a public situation. Illya nodded, appreciating his life and his luck.

Lunch was filled with the usual banter between themselves and their fellow agents, and Napoleon flirting with everything in a skirt. The day passed like any other day in the office at the end of an extended affair. They went to their afternoon medical exam, where Illya's rib was poked and prodded and his infection was declared nearly eliminated. Another two days of antibiotics for that, and a week's light duty in the lab until his rib stopped aching, and he would be back in the field for their next assignment.

Outwardly, nothing had changed. That, he thought, was exactly how it should be.

***

Dinner had been an inexpensive but thoroughly enjoyable meal at Napoleon's favorite Italian place. There had been wine, and plenty of it, and both of them were comfortably full and a little loose and drunk by the time they got back to Napoleon's apartment. He and Illya still had a lot of things to work out between them, but the fact that they didn't have to worry about their jobs was an intense relief. They'd have to be back in the office in the morning, as usual, but the night was still young and Napoleon was looking forward to a little exploration.

They were kissing as Napoleon locked the door and reset the security system, tugging at each other's shirts and ties. The absolute lack of pretense was thrilling and he was already thoroughly aroused. Their wandering trail to the bedroom was marked by shed clothing -- a tie on the floor, a shirt thrown over the back of a chair, socks hanging half off the dresser. Breathless and naked, they wrestled their way down onto the bed.

Illya's hands on his body were strong and stirring, and his mouth was absolutely intoxicating. Soft lips, hard teeth, and the cool hiss of breath played on his neck and slithered into his ear like electric current, sending chills down his spine. They moved together on the flat space of the mattress, limbs slipping on skin, pulling each other close and drinking one another in. He was hard and his cock was leaving slick trails on Illya's body as they tumbled together; Illya's was wet and slippery against him and he loved how it felt, how it smelled, the taste of Illya's skin as Napoleon sucked on his chest. Illya hissed when he teased a nipple with his teeth, goosebumps rising on his back and sides. Shifting his weight, he kissed his way down Illya's body to take his partner's cock in his mouth.

It felt, and tasted, just as good as it had before. Better, maybe, because he was home and they were safe and they'd made it through the discussion with Waverly. He could have this; he could have more than this. That heavy, thick flesh sliding between his lips and across his tongue was something he could never experience with a woman, and it pleased something deep and necessary within him. The dark, musky scent of him made Napoleon a little dizzy at the depth of his desire. Illya moaned quietly, fisting his hand in Napoleon's hair. " _Boze moi_." It was soft but heartfelt and Napoleon sucked him in more deeply. Illya's other hand found his cock and closed around it, stroking slow and powerful; Napoleon shivered and made a soft sound of appreciation.

Illya nipped his skin and sucked his way along Napoleon's thigh, biting his hip when Napoleon did something with his tongue that Illya seemed to like particularly well. Napoleon hissed at the sting of Illya's teeth and ground his cock into Illya's shoulder as his partner's other hand grabbed his ass and squeezed. He moaned and let Illya slip from his mouth, nuzzling at his balls and licking his way along the inside of Illya's thigh. The skin at the back of Illya's knee was soft and slightly ticklish, drawing a sound that was almost a giggle from the man when he licked there. Napoleon grinned and licked again as Illya caressed his ass, now with both hands, and mouthed Napoleon's tight balls. It felt fantastic.

He was startled when, a few moments later, Illya's hot tongue found its way between his cheeks. Still breathless from what Illya had just been doing, he panted, "Illya?"

"What?" His voice was muffled by Napoleon's flesh.

"What are you doing?"

His partner looked up at him. "Do you not like it?"

He hadn't thought about that. "I... I don't know. Why on earth would you want to do that?"

Illya laughed, low and dangerous. "Oh, Napoleon. Allow me to demonstrate." Illya's face disappeared again, his slick, wet tongue poking and caressing in places Napoleon would never have considered putting his mouth before. Once he got over his shock at the whole thing, he realized it felt good. It felt very, _very_ good. He'd never known he had so many nerve endings there that could be made to tingle in that way. Napoleon gasped as Illya's hand closed on his cock, tongue still swirling and licking at the tight muscle there.

"Oh, God." He barely kept control of his voice, shivering as Illya played him like a concert violin. It was amazing and Napoleon pushed back into Illya's mouth, hips wriggling at the feel of it. The man was going to turn him into jello if he kept that up, and Napoleon was going to love every damned minute of it. His body shook as Illya kept pressing at him, stroking him, licking him like a cat with a bowl of cream. He floated in pleasure like the ocean until time utterly vanished.

When Illya stopped, he groaned. There was a slight pressure at his anus. "Have you ever had anything inside you before?" There was a pause. "Other than at medical, I mean."

Napoleon nodded. "A finger," he affirmed, breathless. "I've occasionally bedded kinky women."

"Did you like it?" Illya increased the pressure, pushing inside just slightly, slicked by his saliva.

"Yes," Napoleon gasped, his fingers tightening on Illya's leg.

"You have something slippery?"

"Bedside drawer," Napoleon told him, pointing, not wanting to stop. Illya was closer.

Illya leaned away for a moment, then returned with a small bottle of petroleum jelly. "Do you want to try more than a finger?"

"M-maybe?" Napoleon's breath caught as Illya carefully slipped one thick, goopy finger into him. "Oh, yeah, that's _good_." Illya let his finger slide slowly in and out of Napoleon, taking Napoleon's hard cock into his mouth as he did so. Napoleon's back arched with his pleasure and he moaned as Illya sucked him. He could feel it, tight but not uncomfortable, when Illya slid a second finger into him, stroking across his prostate. It left him breathless and groaning and he pushed back against the moving hand.

Illya's fingers turned and spread, stretching him open slowly but inexorably. He opened his legs to it, wanting more, welcoming his lover. This was a tease, a hint, a devilish preview of what had to be coming, and it was utterly delicious. He wanted all of it. A third finger entered him, making him shudder and groan, loud and harsh. "Too much?" Illya asked, drawing away from his cock.

He shook his head frantically. "No!" Illya grinned and returned to his work, driving Napoleon utterly mad with want. Nothing existed but Illya's mouth on his cock, and those fingers moving inside him, making him desperate for more. Finally, overcome, he gasped, "Please. Illya." He needed it -- needed Illya's cock inside him, needed to feel the man take him, fuck him, drive him into bliss.

Illya's hands moved, turning him onto his belly, tucking pillows under his hips, holding his sweat-slicked buttocks apart. Napoleon followed willingly, allowing every liberty, the rasp of his breath begging for more. Then, finally, Illya's hard, thick cock pressed at his entrance, larger than fingers, smoother, _better_ , breaching him and pushing inside. He groaned again, and Illya paused, letting him get used to the immense feeling of stretching, of being filled, though Illya was only an inch or so into him. Shivering, panting, Napoleon willed himself to relax. He reached back and took Illya's hip in one hand, urging him slowly forward. Illya made a sound that might have been a gasp, or a laugh, and leaned into him, penetrating further.

God, it was good. In a lifetime of hedonistic pursuit of pleasure, this was unique. He smothered his whimper in a pillow, pressing back against Illya again, wanting more and more again as Illya's hips moved in a slow arc, back and forth, in and out. The friction alone was incredibly good. "Oh, _oh_ ," Napoleon moaned, " _yes_ , more. Move."

Illya gave another thrust, harder this time, burying himself completely in Napoleon's body, sending sparks everywhere. Napoleon shuddered with it, spreading his legs even further, opening himself without reservation. Napoleon could hear Illya's harsh breath and the soft sounds of pleasure issuing from his partner's throat. His hands moved up Napoleon's body, caressing his sides, mapping his chest and shoulders as he leaned forward, spreading himself over Napoleon's back. His hips kept a sold rhythm and he clung to Napoleon's body, fucking him as he panted into Napoleon's ear. "So good," Illya whispered, "you're so good."

The pleasure built in him with each thrust of Illya's cock, and Illya began moving faster, pushing him closer and closer to the edge, his hand on Napoleon's cock, stroking him as they bucked and writhed together. Nothing had ever felt this good; his body was burning with it, overflowing, ready to burst. He called out, wordless, heart racing, his fingers clenched in the bedspread as Illya kissed and sucked at his neck, at his shoulder, biting down and sending a jolt through Napoleon's whole being; he cried out in his ecstasy.

A moment later, it was too much. Illya pounded into him and he broke, shouting as his body jerked and shuddered, coming so hard he was nearly seeing stars. Illya held on, not slowing down, and Napoleon let go entirely, floating in absolute bliss while Illya gasped and groaned above him, his fingers leaving bruises on Napoleon's shoulder and hip.

It took Illya a couple more minutes to find his own release, but Napoleon would have been content to lie there and take it for as long as Illya was able. He was mildly aware that he'd probably be sore when the endorphins wore off, but right now, it was the best damned thing ever, and the tremors that wracked Illya's frame with his orgasm left his partner panting when his body finally stilled, spent and exhausted, on Napoleon's back.

"Wow," Napoleon murmured, when he finally had enough breath and brains back to form words. It wasn't eloquent, but he didn't think the occasion really called for it.

Illya kissed his neck and nuzzled him. "You all right?"

Napoleon nodded. "Oh, yeah," he purred.

"What did you think?"

Grinning, Napoleon said, "I think I should have taken Angelique up on that whole dildo concept."

Illya whalloped him with a pillow.

***

ABOUT A YEAR LATER

Napoleon stood in the crowd with Illya and Mr Waverly by his side. The ceremony had finished a few minutes ago, and it was for that they had come from New York. Bertie and Jeeves -- now Sir Bertram and Sir Reginald, of all things -- finally emerged from the group of newly created knights and approached the agents. Bertie was sporting a grin as wide as the sky and even Jeeves managed to look vaguely pleased with life.

Less than three weeks previously, the laws in Britain had changed. Being homosexual was no longer a criminal offense in and of itself, and the couple finally felt safe enough to return home to England, and to London, after having spent twenty eight years in exile. Sweetening the pot was the offer of knighthood for both of them for the silent but essential roles they had played during and after the war. Apparently Waverly had put a few words in the right ears; his own work with British Intelligence before coming to UNCLE had been in the highest echelons and he had a very long reach. Napoleon had no idea what favors he'd had to call in to swing this so quickly, but it was damned impressive.

Waverly was wearing a chest full of medals and honors that Napoleon had never suspected he had. Jeeves was wearing several himself, including the Victoria Cross he'd earned during the first world war, and looking more impressive than Napoleon had ever seen him. Bertie, the civilian among them, was only wearing his new honor, but he seemed much more pleased for Jeeves than for himself, from the way he was looking at his lover. He'd been a baron most of his life, Napoleon thought, so it didn't seem to matter quite as much to him. He was used to having status in any crowd, but this had given Jeeves an equality he would never have otherwise attained.

"What ho, my friends, what ho!" Bertie called as he approached, one hand on Jeeves's arm.

"Well, Sir Bertram, Sir Reginald," Waverly greeted them, extending a hand. Bertie took it first, shaking it firmly, and then Jeeves did so as well. "My congratulations to you both. This honor is well-deserved, I must say."

"Sir Alex," Jeeves said, "thank you." There was a distinct twinkle in the man's eye. "I am delighted that you, Mr Solo, and Mr Kuryakin could join us."

"Congratulations, Sir Reginald," Napoleon said, shaking his hand. Jeeves shook Illya's hand and accepted his congratulations as well.

"Thank you, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. It is a pleasure to have you here." A bit of a smile, small but genuine, quirked his lips upward.

"It is ever so good to see you chaps again," Bertie said. "I can't thank you enough, Alex, for helping us return home again. I didn't think it would ever happen."

Waverly nodded. "I can't think of two men who are more deserving. I will admit that I had anticipated the passage of the bill last month and had started things in motion somewhat beforehand."

"You always did rather have the ability to see the wind before it started blowing, old boy," Bertie answered. "You're a regular whatsit that sees invisible thingummies. Just coming home at all would have been more than I could ever have asked, but this--" he gestured at Jeeves, looking over at his lover. "I can't tell you what this means to both of us. We'll never again have to endure people treating Reg as though he's not even in the room. I think that's been one of the worst things in this whole life we've had together, really. It wasn't just that I couldn't tell anyone that I loved him, it was that he's always had to play the part of the servant to men who weren't fit to light his bally cigarettes. Too often we couldn't even eat at the same table or sit in the same room together." Napoleon could hear Bertie's frustration with the decades of inequity they'd suffered just to be together. "I'll admit that a rather childish part of me is looking forward to cudgeling a few people with his knighthood if they try to ignore him."

Jeeves nodded. "I admit, I am very much looking forward to this change. It will take time for me to become accustomed to the fact that I need no longer defer to Bertram's friends and acquaintances. A lifetime's habits are rarely abandoned in a day."

"I'm certain you'll adjust, Reginald," Waverly said. "You've always faced every challenge most admirably."

"Thank you."

Napoleon smiled when he heard Jeeves deliberately leave the honorific off the end of the sentence. He hadn't been entirely sure the man could; the lack had been notable in the conversation so far. Illya gestured to the door of the slowly emptying hall. "I believe dinner awaits us," he said. Of course it would be Illya to point out an incipient meal.

Someone on the other side of the hall caught Waverly's eye. "I shall meet you at the table, gentlemen. I see an old friend with whom I need to speak. If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course, old thing," Bertie said. "We'll see you in a few minutes." As Waverly walked away, he turned to Napoleon and Illya. "How have you boys been?" he asked.

"Very well, actually," Illya said as they started moving through the crowd. "We have been very busy, as you might imagine."

"Things are working out," Napoleon added. "We have both of you to thank."

"I had never met men who had a relationship like yours before," Illya continued. "I do not think either of us had. I had never even considered it a possibility until we met you."

"It can sometimes be quite difficult to conceive of such things without a suitable model," Jeeves replied. "Finding a way to navigate society has been difficult for men like ourselves for a very long time. The collapse of the classical civilizations deprived a great many people of even the thought of such options."

"I'm just delighted that you finally talked to each other," Bertie said. "Those first few words, they're so often the hardest ones." He laughed. "Just ask Reg. After I finally got those f. f. w.'s out, he hasn't been able to shut me up in all these years."

Jeeves smirked. "Certain techniques have proved more successful than others." Napoleon and Illya exchanged a very amused glance.

Bertie turned a chary eye on his lover. "I'll thank you to keep those 'certain techniques' of yours behind closed doors, Reggie. We could still land in chokey if someone gets their knickers in a twist over such talk."

"Of course, Bertram. I shall be certain to deploy them when we are home _alone_ this evening." The man turned an absolutely simmering look on Bertie, who flushed bright pink.

"Oh, I say, Reg, that's hardly fair!" he sputtered.

"Thou art fairer than the evening air," Jeeves murmured to him, still smiling as they exited the great hall.

Bertie shook his head and laughed. "You are the very soppiest of saps, Reg. Madeline Spode wouldn't stand a chance against you in a contest of romantic drivel."

Jeeves's face suddenly went stuffy. "I should think, Bertram, that Marlowe would trump 'specific dream rabbits' in terms of appropriate content without any dispute."

"You look like you've swallowed a lemon dipped in dill pickle juice, old thing," Bertie said. "Literary romantic drivel is still romantic drivel." He grinned, then lowered his voice. "And I do love you for it."

Jeeves sighed and shook his head, his face softening again. "We shall discuss this later."

It was going to be an _interesting_ dinner.

~~fin~~


End file.
